Chekov has been outside of cities, but never this far outside of one. There's no gleaming metal in sight, no mechanical hum, and no carefully sanitized and scentless recycled air. It's quiet and still, and it feels like time itself is winding down and slowly becoming irrelevant.
He inspects the tractor—not that he knows what it is—and says hello to the chickens before approaching the ramshackle dwelling. In spite of the clothes on the line and the well-tended garden, it seems impossible for anyone to live here. How would they communicate with people? How do they get anywhere?]
Hello? [He steps onto the porch only to jump back in alarm when it creaks in protest. That isn't the noise of something that's structurally sound, is it?]