Despite the layer of dirt and grime laying like fine snow over everything, the kitchen was stocked as if it were still serving an army of people. The cabinets and cupboards heavy with supplies. The glass case on the counter even held baked goods - still fresh, Wyatt discovered, snagging a soft crescent from the gleaming tray inside.

Tucking it between his teeth (it was buttery and flaky, and for a moment still felt warm), he slipped the bag off his shoulders and yanked on the zipper. Intending on stocking up now, while the gettin' was good, he reached up -- just in time to see a shadow pass over the glass door at the other side of the room.

Swearing under his breath, he ducked and waited... and listened, brow furrowing at the strange voice.

He didn't recognize it - though the small crack in it reminded him of Howard - but that he'd spoken, announced himself, earned him a few points. Carefully, he reached up and pulled the biscuit out of his mouth.

"...That's gunna depend on you, son," he called back after a long moment. Slowly, he shifted out his crouch and stood, watching the shape beyond the glass warily. "Why don't ya come out here where I can see ya."