Noah has enough materials (Materials >=10)

Noah stood in the backyard, surveying the collection of scavenged materials spread out on the grass. A pile of scrap wood, a bucket of bent nails, and a rusty hammer lay at his feet. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had, and it would have to do. He flexed his hands, calloused from days of hard labor, and adjusted the strap of his tool belt. The house needed work—more work than he could do in a day—but every little improvement gave them a better chance of surviving the next attack.

The front door had been the first priority, reinforced earlier in the week with a thick sheet of plywood bolted over it. Now he turned his attention to the windows on the ground floor. Most were still ****, the glass cracked or missing entirely. Noah frowned as he measured the frames with his eyes. The planks he’d found weren’t uniform, and it would take some creativity to make them fit.

He knelt beside the first window, brushing away the dirt and cobwebs that clung to the sill. The faint smell of mildew wafted up, mixing with the scent of damp earth from the previous night’s rain. The cool air prickled at his skin, but he ignored it, grabbing the first plank and holding it against the frame.

"Perfect," he muttered sarcastically, noting how the board was too long on one side and warped on the other. With a sigh, he reached for his saw and began cutting. The sharp, rhythmic rasp of the blade biting into wood echoed through the quiet yard.

By the time he had the first board in place, sweat dripped down his brow despite the chilly weather. His muscles ached, but he pushed on, driving nails into the plank until it sat snugly over the window. It wasn’t pretty—nothing about this life was—but it would hold. He stepped back to admire his work, the smell of sawdust heavy in the air. One down, four more to go.

As the hours dragged on, the world around him seemed to fade into the background. He worked methodically, measuring, cutting, hammering, pausing only to wipe the sweat from his hands or drink from his water bottle. Occasionally, he’d glance toward the house, catching a glimpse of Olivia through the window. She was in the kitchen, boiling water over the tiny propane stove they’d scavenged. The sight of her, focused and steady, was enough to keep him going.

By midday, the yard was littered with splinters and discarded scraps. Noah’s back protested as he bent to pick up another plank, his fingers raw from gripping tools. He was on the last window now, and the thought of finishing the job gave him a renewed burst of energy.

As he hammered the final nail into place, a sense of accomplishment washed over him. The house wasn’t invincible, but it was stronger now than it had been that morning. He stood back, surveying his work. The windows were a patchwork of planks, uneven but secure. He imagined what this place might look like to someone stumbling upon it—a fortress of sorts, a stubborn declaration of life in a world overrun by ****.

Noah turned his attention to the yard. There was still so much to do: reinforcing the back fence, finding a way to secure the roof, building traps to ward off any intruders, living or dead. But for now, he allowed himself a moment to breathe.

The sound of the back door creaking open drew his attention. Olivia stepped outside, holding a steaming mug of something warm. Her face was soft with approval as she took in the fortified windows.

“Looks solid,” she said, handing him the mug. He took it gratefully, the warmth seeping into his chilled hands.

“It’ll hold,” he replied, his voice rough with exhaustion.

She gave him a small smile, the kind that reminded him why he kept fighting, kept building. “You’re doing good, Noah. We’ll make this place home.”

[-10 Materials]