[ Between her injuries, the intensity of her panic upon waking, and the alleged zombie apocalypse, he decides he can comfortably guess there's some personal history with the weapon that needs no interrogation. He nods, turning his gaze toward the kitchen. ]

I'm going to look for a back door or a basement, if there are any, and then we should be set to tear apart whatever looks promising. Probably won't hurt to try out the television or the radio, maybe someone's been waiting this whole time to tell us something.

[ Or fiddle with her guitar. He wouldn't be shocked if it was emotionally significant, the way she'd looked at it. ]