Milton militia, the note had said. In the wake of that death, in the wake of what preceeded it, it makes sense that someone would want to organize one. It's an interesting idea, though Raju is more interested in finding out what the mystery note-writer, and anyone else who comes, might think 'militia' means in a place like this than he is in joining. He'll decide once he knows more. But sunset the note had said too and so Raju is scowling a little, pulling the edge of the blanket further around his face with a clumsy mittened hand. He hasn't given up on finding a way to cover enough of his face to block the bitter, painful chill of near-dark without blocking so much of his view that he can't see when he turns his head, even if he hasn't got it figured out just yet.

The problem with a note that asks him to be outside even once what he's forced to call the 'heat' of the sun has started to fade is that it also says Sunday. The idea of anyone being able to keep track of the days of the week here has been eating at him, because he hasn't figured out yet how to do it. But the sun is setting and he's nearby, and he hadn't noticed anything written on wood there before, so the note about the militia must be new. So there's a chance whoever that is ahead—

Ah. Raju smiles when he realises who it is, reflexively pleased at the memory of what — for one of them — hadn't been a terrible day, though he dampens the smile in the next instant to a small, friendly thing to accommodate for that temper. That temper and the wooden bat.

Raju nods at the other man as he comes to a stop, fingers rubbing against each other inside the mittens as he resists the urge to cross his arms for warmth, on the assumption the man in front of him would read the posture as something aggressive. Then Raju takes a moment to look him over. He's the only other person here but he seems like he's waiting too, so: "That note, about the militia. That was yours, wasn't it?"