The first Billy Creel hears of the wanderer is from Maggie.

"She's got a blue jumpsuit," she says, sitting down at the worn table. An old brown bowl is cupped between her palms, cracked near the rim. "Big yellow numbers were on the back."

"Really now? What numbers?" he asks.

Maggie makes a face as she brings the thin broth to her chapped lips, dredging up the memory. "One-oh-one."

Billy raises an eyebrow, pressing his worn spoon to the table. "You sure?"

"Positive," says Maggie.

He strokes his beard, calloused fingers knotting absently through the coarse brown hair. "Another from that vault. That other fellow was from the vault, too, if I remember right. Did you get a good look at her?"

"Kind of tall. Short brown hair, all messy and weird. She had a gun, too. It was small, though." Maggie shrugs. "Mister Simms let her in. He was talking to her at the gate but I didn't catch everything."

Billy leans forward, interested. "What did you hear?"

"Something about her father, I think. And something about the bomb in the middle of town." She puts the bowl down and stares intently at the gristly chunks of soggy meat congealing in the center. "Could've sworn I heard Mister Simms talking about disarming it, but the Atom church wouldn't like that very much, would they?"

"No, probably not," Billy agrees.

Maggie sips at the stew again, a thoughtful hum in her throat. "She went to the saloon after the sheriff let her go."

"Information and a bed, I'll bet. Moriarty's got it all up there." Billy grunts, considering, and then adjusts his eye patch. "You'd better watch yourself, sweetheart, you hear?"

Maggie doesn't seem pleased—it's not often that they get new faces other than caravans around here after all—but she nods anyway and drinks her supper in noisy mouthfuls.

"That's my girl," says Billy, and leans over to kiss her forehead.