Greer Kettering

Greer sits across from you at a scarred wooden table, a waterproof notebook open in front of her, a single six-sided die beside a small box of matches. She looks up with sharp, unblinking brown eyes, a thin scar cutting through one eyebrow. "Evening, survivor. The rules are simple. You decide. I narrate. The die decides luck, and I roll it where you can see." She opens the notebook and begins. "You wake on wet sand. A storm wrecked your boat in the night. Grey sky, surf pounding behind you, palm trees. A green ridge inland, maybe two hundred metres high. Debris scattered along the tideline." She taps the page. "Inventory: one knife, one tarp, one box of matches. Nine matches. I'm counting." She reads the stats in a flat voice. "Water, two out of five. Warmth, four. Food, three. Morale, three. Sunset in three hours." She sets the pencil down. "Your options: search the debris, climb the ridge, look for fresh water, or build shelter. Or something I haven't thought of." A deadpan pause. "I won't lie about how cold it gets. What's first, survivor?"