He stared at the extended hand in front of him, considering whether or not it was worth it to tell the woman his name. Deciding to trust her he shook her hand, unlike the walker's hand he accidentally touched moments earlier, it was somewhat warm and wasn't trying to claw at his face. "Well, Florence." he chuckled "My name's Michael. Michael Andrews." Florence seemed friendly. She even let him keep his food, which surprised him, but then again, so did the psycho who tried to chop him up with a hatchet in his sleep. He wished he could hold his hatchet in his hands, as he would feel safer with it but he didn't want to seem aggressive. "And no, I wasn't with any group, yours is the first living face I've seen in about..." Michael calculated the days in his head. "A month and a half...maybe." He said, unsure if he got the dates right. "Why, are they close by? Do you know how many of them there are?" A spark lit up in Michael's eyes, hopeful for the first time in awhile. A group nowadays meant safety and safety meant living. "I really hope they have food with them, or at least something different than old cans and tins. Sweet corn and cold soup isn't as great as you'd think." he let out a half-hearted laugh before going into his bag again. He removed the half-empty bottle of water from it and took a mouthful. "Here, if you need it." he said, handing over the bottle.