@ocblooggh
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Almost everyone irritated Maxwell.
Willow was bratty. Wilson was a know-it-all. Wigfrid was too loud. Wolfgang smelled. Etcetera, etcetera. Everyone had done at least one thing to get on Maxwell’s thin, thin nerves.
Everyone, except for one woman.
She was amicable to Maxwell, the man who lost his cool at the drop of a hat. And Maxwell couldn’t really explain it, but she had a way about her that made him remain calm. Even when she assigned him chores. Even when she lectured him about not doing said chores. If anyone else tried to do that, Maxwell would snap. He would be defiant, and foul, and rude.
But for some reason, Maxwell was deferential to Ms. Wickerbottom. He would groan and protest when he was assigned chores, but he would never turn cruel. Just pouty, like a petulant child.
Eventually, the isolation got to Maxwell, and Maxwell realized that he was surrounded by people, but still alone. And Maxwell enjoyed his solitude, but the other survivors were the only other people Maxwell would ever see, likely for the rest of his life. And eventually, fighting off hounds and watching his shadows chop trees and shaving befall became too much the same for Maxwell. He missed an intellectual conversation. He missed a good game of chess. And truthfully, seeing the others intermingling and passing the time by talking and playing games made Maxwell aware of his own isolation.
So, that was what brought him to Ms. Wickerbottom’s base on that quiet autumn afternoon.
Maxwell cleared his throat loudly to get her attention.