Ellen Park, the Lone Wanderer

And Voodoo opens the door before stepping out into post-nuke Philly, glancing up and down the street. No movement he can see. There used to be a stoop where he is, and he hops down to the pavement in its absence.

"Any word on how Conklin's doing?"

Can't hurt to keep his mind occupied. You know, to prevent all the dwelling on how he might never again see the only home he's ever known.

(It might not be healthy, but it keeps you functional.)