In Endurance We Survive

The last of us

Safe and Sound

The shattered chapters: part. 7 Part 8. Volume 1 Volume 2

Part 9

Blood and Water

~1~

Safe are the Ghosts Episode 1: Pt 1.... Pt 2... Pt 3.... Pt 4 ...

The start Hospital bubblin over

The Zoo Grandpa✨ Wednesday✨

Diner High school ✨

Around the Block✨ water park

All the girls ✨ best friends✨

Not sick Career Day✨ so loved✨

The boyfriend✨ new born✨ the horse ✨

The dabbles (Requested dabbles✨)

The stream / Wow we do love a deathbed confession / It's like a slip’n slide / Maybe in another life / Since day one / Parent-teacher conference / Snitch / Pretty In Red / Starshine / ✨The Great War, Part Two✨/ You Are In Love / Repercussions✨ / out of the woods / Ration Cards ✨ / he calls me a knucklehead ✨ / my dummies / Secret Spot ✨/ seven days ✨ / I swear it ✨ /. it’s just- someone ✨ / dino nugs / I got you ✨ / end of all good things / mister Dansa / common ground

───── ꔫ ─────

The Mandolorian

Mind of baskar: I

II The mechanical man

III Ka’ra

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Wattpad: plsplsdontseeme

 “Gale,” you called, voice cracking more than you’d meant it to. But she kept walking.

She shouldn’t have kept walking. Not with the way her boots slammed against the floor, not with the way her shoulders were squared in that kind of grief-fueled determination that only ends in heartbreak. Her steps were too purposeful, too loud in the echoing silence that had followed the scream, the gunfire, the collapse.

She shouldn’t have been moving at all.

You could see it in her face when she passed you—her eyes barely met yours, just a flicker of a glance, but it was enough. It was all she needed. Because in that split second, something inside her changed. Like her brain was fighting to rewrite the truth, but her eyes wouldn’t let her.

The blood on your hands was impossible to ignore. Dark, drying, tacky in some places and still wet in others. It had soaked through your sleeves, crusted into the creases of your palms, caked under your fingernails like dirt you’d never be able to scrub out. You didn’t even feel cold anymore—you didn’t feel much of anything at all.

Your knees were soaked, heavy with a mixture of snowmelt, dirt, and blood from where you’d dropped too fast, too hard, too late. And still you hadn’t moved. You hadn’t had the strength to.

And then your face.

That was what broke her.

Because panic was carved into every inch of it—your mouth trembling around words you couldn’t form, your chest rising too fast, your eyes glazed with something deeper than shock. Not fear. Not confusion. But that hollow understanding—the kind that only came after.

The glaze hadn’t gone away since you’d pressed your hands to his chest—desperate, fumbling, begging for movement, for breath, for anything. But there’d been nothing. Just the stillness. The unbearable silence that followed the last heartbeat.

And your voice—your voice had broken with it, splintered open like glass. When you’d called for help, it had already been too late.

She saw all of that in a glance.

And still, she kept walking. Because stopping meant accepting it. And neither of you were ready for that.

The hallway was lit in harsh red pulses—the overhead emergency lights flickering on and off like a dying heartbeat. The sun was long gone. All that was left was the cold, sterile hum of power reserves failing, and the metallic tang of blood clinging to every breath.

“Gale, please—” you begged again, your voice barely audible over the blare of the high-pitched alarm that wouldn’t shut off, screaming over your grief like it didn’t know when to quit.

He’s dead.

She stopped.

Not because your voice convinced her, but because her mind finally caught up with what she was about to do. The door in front of her—the one that still hung half open. The one with the trail of blood leading inside. The one you had stumbled out of just minutes ago.

“Stop,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. It was final.

You s“Stop,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. It was final—cut through the chaos like a blade, sharp and simple, the kind of word that made everything still.

You swallowed hard, chest tightening as you stepped toward her. Not fast, not all at once—just careful, deliberate steps, like she was a wire pulled taut and one wrong move would snap her in two. Your hands trembled, still sticky with blood that had dried unevenly across your fingers, your wrists, under your nails. It was beneath your skin now, like you'd never be clean again.

“Don’t go in there,” you said, voice hoarse, small. The words cracked as they left your throat, raw from screaming and silence and everything in between. “He… he’s gone.”

Gale didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But something behind her eyes faltered—just a flicker of disbelief trying to claw its way back.

You kept going, because if you didn’t speak, the memory would do it for you.

“It’s everywhere,” you whispered, the words tumbling out faster now, unfiltered and jagged, like floodwaters slipping through a cracked dam. “Just blood and—b—” your voice caught in your throat, choked and broken, “and it—it’s all over the floor. And his—his hand was still twitching and I tried, I swear I tried, I didn’t know what to press, there was just so much and he—he looked at me like he knew and he, bu-but he-he couldn’t be looking at me because- it was clean, clean shot through the head-an-and b-blood and b—”

You couldn’t finish.

Your knees buckled slightly beneath you, and you caught yourself on the wall, the weight of the moment pulling you down like gravity had finally won. The emergency lights strobed red over your face, your voice, your pain—painting you in flashes of hell. Sallowed hard, stepping toward her as carefully as you could, as if one wrong move might shatter her completely.

“Don’t go in there,” you whispered, the words dragging out of you like they hurt. “He… he’s gone- It’ it’s everywhere,” The words began to tumble out, as if you couldn’t stop them, “Just blood and b-...and it-” 

She means brains, Abby, his brains are on the floor.

“You’re lying,” Abby snapped, her voice sharp and hot, cutting through the thick weight of panic like it might be able to slice your words in half, undo them, erase them.

You flinched—not from her tone, but from the truth in your hands. You’d almost wiped your face, almost tried to dry the tears burning your eyes, only to freeze when you saw the blood again.

Still fresh. Still wet.  Your breath hitched, staggered and uneven, as if your lungs couldn’t decide whether to sob or scream. You stared at your palms, trembling, shining in the low red light like some cruel joke. Like a stain you weren’t meant to wash off.

“No—no,” you stammered, voice cracking, thick with grief. You shook your head, your voice desperate and fraying at the edges. “Come back.”

–

“HEY, DOC—!”

The shout slammed through the thin veil of your sleep like a sledgehammer, rattling against the inside of your skull and dragging you violently from whatever shallow dream you'd been clinging to. The words stung, sharp and echoing, still bouncing around your head as you jerked upright, disoriented and half tangled in the blanket that had slipped off your shoulders sometime in the night.

Adrenaline surged through your chest like a crash, a hot, immediate wave that left you breathless and wired. Your heart was pounding—thumping—so hard and fast it almost drowned everything else out. No birds, no wind, no hum of the old heater from the next room. Just your heartbeat and the faintest trace of panic still buzzing in your veins.

You stood too fast, your feet hitting the floor in uneven steps, and your socks betrayed you instantly—slipping on the smooth wood as you stumbled, caught yourself against the edge of your dresser, and pushed off toward the door.

Your mind was already racing ahead of your body.

Something was wrong. You knew that shout—Doc only meant one thing when it was yelled like that. Not casual. Not routine. Urgent. Emergency.

With clumsy, adrenaline-fueled steps, you staggered out of your bedroom, one hand bracing against the wall to steady yourself as the world caught up in blurry, disjointed pieces. Your hair had come undone—half fallen from whatever sleepy, half-hearted braid Joel had managed to weave into it last night after he found you curled over the toilet, vomiting up what had once been a perfectly good dinner and about three drinks too many. His hands had been steady, his voice gruff but gentle, the way it always got when you were sick or hurting or scared and trying not to show it.

The hallway lights were off, but the faint spill of lantern-glow from downstairs illuminated the upstairs landing just enough for you to see the outline of another figure stepping into view.

Your father.

Joel stood in the doorway of his room, hair tousled, shirt half-buttoned, his own eyes wild with that specific mix of sleep confusion and immediate, paternal dread. His posture was tense—back straight, shoulders squared like instinct had already carried him halfway into fight mode. He looked toward you instantly, gaze darting to your face, down to your hands, checking for blood, for a limp, for something broken.

You stopped when you saw him—your breath caught in your chest, your socked feet still sliding slightly on the floor, your own panic momentarily giving way to his.

You didn’t have to say anything.

Because he was already speaking, voice low, coarse, and tight with concern.“You okay? What the hell’s goin’ on?”

The words hadn’t even fully formed on your tongue before the next shout cut through the quiet again—

“Doctor Miller, we need you!”

You winced. Not at the volume—though it rang through the house like a shot—but at the title.

Doctor.

It never sat right with you. It clung too heavy to your shoulders, too clinical, too official for what you were. It didn’t feel earned. Didn’t feel yours. Not really. You weren’t trained for this—not in the way that word implied. You didn’t sit in classrooms or pass boards or swear under oath with clean hands and steady futures. There was no diploma hanging over your desk, no framed certificate, no moment where someone in a white coat handed you the title with applause.

What you had was blood. Trial by fire. Scar by scar. You had the memory of holding down screaming bodies while trying to figure out what was bone and what was tendon with nothing but a dull knife and shaking hands. You had Joel reading aloud from a tattered copy of Grey’s Anatomy in a whisper, squinting in the half-light of a lantern while you dug into someone's side with a pair of repurposed tweezers.

You learned from mistakes—mistakes that bled and cried and sometimes didn’t make it through the night.

But still—people called you Doctor Miller.

Because it made them feel safer. Because in a world of collapsing walls and too many funerals, they needed something—someone—to believe in. And if that someone could stitch a wound, stop the bleeding, bring someone back from the edge? That was enough.

“Doctor Miller” was easier to say than scared kid who learned how to stitch a laceration in someone’s basement by flashlight while praying they didn’t nick an artery. It gave people permission to hope. And so you answered to it. Every time. Even when it made your skin crawl. Even when the word felt like a lie stitched just as tight as the wounds you closed.

So, you didn’t argue. You just jerked your chin toward Joel.

He nodded without a word, already stepping into his room, grabbing the worn, leather-wrapped first aid kit from the hook by the door. It was old and heavy and patched together with duct tape and thread, but it had saved lives more times than you could count. He didn’t need instructions. He’d done this before—too many times.

Your steps down the stairs were faster than your brain could catch up. Each thud of your feet echoed through your skull, still buzzing with leftover whiskey, dehydration, and dread. You’d sobered up the second your name was called—but your body hadn’t quite forgiven you yet.

And still, you didn’t hesitate.

You’d seen it all before—lived through it more times than you could count. Pregnant women screaming through clenched teeth on the kitchen table while someone boiled water that wouldn’t stay hot and Joel held their hand, silent and steady. Babies born blue and silent, and some that weren’t. You remembered the way Maria’s eyes didn’t leave yours during the worst of them—not in panic, but in pure, hard faith. Because she had to believe you could do it. There was no one else.

Kids with fevers so high they trembled until their limbs stiffened, foam bubbling at their mouths as you tried every old-world remedy, every whispered wives’ tale, and watched, helpless, as their parents crumpled before your eyes. You’d held a child as she went still. You’d lied to her father and said she didn’t feel a thing.

You’d patched up shattered limbs and torn skin, digging glass and gravel out of tissue with forceps that had seen more war than peace. You’d sewn lips shut, reattached fingers, drained abscesses so rancid you had to burn the rags afterward.

You’d screamed at people to hold them down while you worked. You’d begged for more light, more hands, more time.

And then there were the bites. The ones no one wanted to talk about. The ones you tried to clean anyway. That you wrapped tight and whispered promises over—promises you never kept.

You’d seen the eyes go hazy, seen the tremors start, seen someone’s last coherent thought flash through their expression as the infection took hold. You’d been the one to nod to Joel or Maria or Tommy when the time came. Sometimes you did it yourself.

You’d worked through all of it—sweat, blood, bile, terror—with your sleeves rolled up and your hands shaking so badly you thought they’d never be steady again.

But you never let them shake during. Not until afterward. Only when the door shut behind you, only when the patient was gone—or saved—did your body catch up to the storm. You’d sit on the floor, head in your hands, blood dried on your arms, and let yourself feel it.

Then you’d get back up. Because there was always someone else waiting.

But this—this made your stomach twist.

Kyle.

He sat on the couch, his face pale and slick with sweat, jaw clenched as he tried not to groan. One hand gripped the side of the cushion, the other pressed against his upper thigh, blood soaking through his jeans in a wide, wet patch. His shirt had been pulled off and wadded beside him, clearly used as makeshift pressure.

He was a good patroller. Young, sharp. Earned respect fast. Always the one to help the new kids, always quick on his feet, always came back in one piece. Until now.

Beside him sat Tommy, steady and calm, one hand on Kyle’s shoulder—quiet reassurance. And on the other side, Maria, already pale from too many nights without sleep, her gaze snapping to you the second your feet hit the bottom step.

Two other board members lingered nearby, one pacing near the front door, the other wringing their hands uselessly, trying to look like they belonged.

The wound wasn’t horrifying. Not at a glance. A deep gash in the upper thigh, wide and angry, possibly from a blade or shrapnel. Ugly, yes, but not catastrophic. Not unless it hit the wrong artery. Not unless infection set in. It bled more from movement than depth, you could already tell that from the streaked trails on the floor and the way Kyle winced every time he shifted.

Still. Something about it—the weight of the room, the way all the voices had gone still the second you stepped in, the anxious eyes of board members trained on you like you were some kind of savior or ticking clock—made your skin crawl.

The kind of silence that didn’t feel like trust.

It felt like pressure.

With a slow blink, you forced your breath in and out, grounding yourself. You stepped forward, wiping your hands along the hem of your shirt without thinking. “W… what happened?”

“I’m not bit,” Kyle blurted out immediately, voice sharp and defensive, like the words had been locked and loaded before you even asked. His gaze met yours—steady, firm—but his words shook around the edges. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the twitch of the hand still gripping his leg.

Your knees creaked as you lowered yourself to the floor beside him, your focus shifting fully to the wound now that the adrenaline had thinned enough for clarity to set in.

Kyle spoke again, quieter this time. “Got it riding through the edge of town… snow was thick, couldn’t see shit, and it caught my leg.”

Your hands stilled for a moment. “What did?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Metal. Rusted pipe, maybe. Fence that fell in the snowbank. I didn’t stop to check, just—fuck, I felt it tear.”

“Okay,” you murmured, a little steadier now, nodding slowly, your voice more clinical, more in it. “Okay. Good. No bite, just a laceration.”

Joel had set the kit down on the coffee table without a word, already open, the contents lined up like familiar tools in a battlefield shrine—gauze, thread, peroxide, forceps, antiseptic wipes, tape, bandage rolls, scissors. All waiting. All ready.

“They ran into a small horde. Thirty or so,” Maria began, her voice even but distant, like her mind was halfway elsewhere, calculating, already three steps ahead. “They said they’d come across a few—maybe seven—frozen solid.”

You didn’t look up as she spoke, your focus rooted in the angry, jagged tear down Kyle’s thigh. The antiseptic soaked the gauze and your gloved fingers worked with quiet precision, cleaning the blood away from the edges, checking the depth, your breath steady despite the way the room felt like it had dropped a few degrees.

Maria continued, “Then thirty of them broke out from underneath. Snow-covered. Camouflaged. They didn’t even hear them coming until the ground started moving.”

There was a pause in the room then—a stillness that stretched too long. Like everyone was thinking the same thing, but no one wanted to say it aloud. The kind of silence that waits for a confirmation no one wants to hear.

You finally spoke, voice quiet. “Which direction?”

Maria’s eyes flicked to you, her mouth set in a hard, unreadable line. “Southwest ridge.”

You nodded once, eyes narrowing slightly. You’d been out that way before. Sparse woods. Shallow drifts. If they were frozen, that meant they were waiting—dormant, hidden. The kind that didn’t move until you were already too close.

“They’ll come here eventually,” Maria said, not with fear, but with that resigned certainty that only came from years of this. Of knowing.

Joel didn’t hesitate. His voice was steady, already sliding into that no-nonsense tone that meant this was now real.

“Alright,” Joel said, his voice cutting through the room with that familiar weight—calm, commanding, the kind of tone that turned chaos into a checklist. “Prep the town. Lock down the outer gates. Get lanterns posted on the blind corners—we’re not gonna be caught off guard.”

You didn’t even pause your work, but the shift in the room was immediate. The energy snapped from dread to movement. Maria was already pulling out her radio, barking quick, clipped orders through static. One of the board members stepped out into the cold without a word. Tommy vanished into the kitchen to grab the weapons ledger, his boots echoing behind him.

Then Joel’s voice came again, softer but just as certain—threaded with something warmer beneath the grit.

“Starshine, baby, you get bundled up,” he said. “We’re heading out.”

You peeked your head over your shoulder, squinting past the strands of hair that had fallen from your braid, still carefully pulling the thread through Kyle’s skin—steady, even, despite the hammering of your pulse.

“Want me to wake Ells?” you asked, tone light but laced with purpose. “Be good for three of us.”

There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for the tension to shift slightly, like a breath had been held.

Then Joel replied, his voice a little quieter, a little gentler in the way only someone who knew the shape of tiredness could manage.

“No,” he said. “Let her sleep in. Some of us need to have a good night’s sleep.”

You nodded once, not smiling exactly, but something softer pulled at the corner of your mouth. It was a rare kind of care he gave, hidden behind the bark and gravel, wrapped in sarcasm and bossy orders—but it was there. Always there.

You tied off the final stitch with a practiced flick of your wrist, trimmed it clean with the scissors Joel had laid out, and pressed a thick gauze pad firmly over the wound on Kyle’s thigh. He hissed through his teeth but didn’t complain—not out loud, anyway. His knuckles had gone white from gripping the edge of the couch, his face pale but grateful.

You gave him a nod, the kind that said you’ll live, then leaned back on your heels, already a few steps ahead.

If you were heading out tonight—and you were—you’d need to move fast.

Layers first. The cold had teeth tonight, and if you were headed southwest, you'd be hitting deeper snow and open terrain. Thick socks, thermals, the insulated jacket Joel had patched twice over, and your scarf—God, if you could find where you threw it after patrol last week.

Two knives. One for quick kills, close and silent. The other tucked in your boot, heavier, better for hacking through brush or something worse. You always double-checked the edges before leaving.  Your gloves were still hanging by the fire downstairs—if someone hadn’t already moved them—and you’d need the good ones, the pair Ellie had stolen and re-sewn the fingertips on after you'd worn through them last winter.

And your pack—already half-stocked, but you’d have to double-check for backup radio batteries. The last time the comms went dead mid-patrol, it had nearly ended with you stuck on a rooftop watching infected swarm through the street below with no one listening to your signal.

You stood slowly, your knees stiff from kneeling, and gave Kyle’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “Keep it elevated. Don’t move unless Maria says so.”  He nodded, too exhausted to argue. Tommy had already stepped in to take watch.

–

“Wha…” Nora breathed, her face nearly pressed to the cold glass, eyes wide as the landscape unfolded in front of them. “It’s a city, Abs. I thought it’d be like… I don’t know, a tent colony. Wood frames and tarps and open fires or something.”

Abby stood a few feet behind her, arms crossed over her chest, her jaw tight as she looked out the same frosted window. Beyond the trees and rolling snowbanks, Jackson rose out of the quiet like something impossible. Streets laid out in grids, homes with actual rooftops, smoke curling from chimneys, lights glowing in second-story windows like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

“Well,” Abby murmured, “we knew they had lights.”

“Yeah, well I thought they were like... little generators,” Mel said from the corner of the room, her hands half-tucked into her sleeves. “Like the kind we used at the FOB. Couple hours of light, tops. Rationed use.”

“Nope,” Nora muttered, shaking her head with a bitter little scoff. “They got full fuckin’ power lines. Substations. Poles. Cables. Look at that.” She gestured toward the skyline—barely a skyline, really, but enough. A town with structure. With order. With comfort.

“Well isn’t that great,” she added under her breath.

The room went quiet for a moment, just the pop and crackle of the fire burning low in the hearth.

Owen, seated closest to the flames, barely turned his head. He didn’t look outside. He didn’t have to.

“Power lines aren’t the problem,” he said flatly, voice almost bored but with that undercurrent of calculation he always slipped into when things got serious. “Here are the problems: they’ve got four main gates, no in-or-outs without clearance, guard towers flanking each exit. Mounted patrols—heavily armed. Tight rotations. Routes that overlap.”

He leaned forward just slightly, tossing a glance at the floor like he could see the city’s layout spread across it like a map. You could tell he’d been watching—really watching. Taking notes even when the others were still caught up in the shock of seeing a town that had functioning power and fences that weren’t made of scrap.

Nora stared at the floor too, brow furrowed. “These guys are trained.”

“Yeah,” Owen nodded. “They’ve got some Vets down there for sure. I’d bet a few old QZ soldiers, some Fireflies, maybe even a few FEDRA leftovers that got tired of orders and set up shop for themselves.”

He took a slow breath, jaw flexing, then stood. The firelight caught the edge of his expression, shadows warping across his features.

“But okay—let’s just say we somehow get past the gates. Slip the guards. Avoid the patrols…”

“They got dogs,” Nora muttered, voice sharp. “I saw three, minimum. Patrol dogs. Trained.”

“Okay… and the dogs,” Owen acknowledged with a tired sigh, running a hand down his face. “Even then, we still don’t know where Joel is. No map. No layout of their housing sectors. No indication of whether he’s even in the inner ring.” The room felt colder then, despite the fire.Until Abby spoke.

“Sparrow does.”

Her voice cut clean through the tension in the room—low, calm, unshaken. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt behind it. Just certainty. Heavy and anchored. Like she wasn’t just guessing—she knew.

Everyone turned toward her. The flickering firelight caught the edge of her jaw, set her expression in sharp contrast—cold eyes, clenched fists, arms crossed tightly over her chest like armor she’d worn a thousand times before. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift under the sudden weight of the silence.

“That’s why I’m not worried,” she said. “Because Sparrow is down there. That’s her home. And she probably knows him…even if she doesn’t know she does.”

There was a pause. A long, quiet one that seemed to hum with the tension of everything no one wanted to say aloud.

Then Nora, voice thin and skeptical, finally let the question fall into the open air like a dropped match.

“If she’s alive… then how do we know she didn’t already kill him?”

The words didn’t echo, but they felt like they had. Like they'd rippled through the room and set something off, something no one could take back. The weight of it didn’t just land—it hit, sharp and sudden, like a blade laid across old wounds.

Everyone felt it.

Because that was the unspoken fear, wasn’t it? The uncomfortable truth humming beneath all the planning and quiet hope. That maybe Sparrow—their Sparrow—wasn’t the person they remembered anymore. That time and distance and grief had twisted her into something else. Something cold. Something capable. That maybe Joel was already gone, and not by accident. Not by some patrol gone wrong. But because she’d found out before they did. Because her rage got there first.

Abby’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it looked like she might snap—but she didn’t. She took a breath instead, slow and tight, and answered with a clipped, deliberate calm.

“She didn’t know what he looked like. She didn’t even know his name. Hell, we barely did. That’s how careful they were.”

“She wouldn’t have done it on accident?” Nora pushed, arms folded, eyes flicking between Abby and Owen.

“No,” Abby snapped—then softer, “She wouldn’t. Jesus- Nora, she wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly.”

Another silence stretched. Then Owen spoke up, tone a little more cautious, a little more tired.

“Fine… but—hypothetically—if she is alive, and she knows, why would she help us? What makes you think she hasn’t just picked her side and stayed on it?”

The question hung heavy, thick in the air like smoke refusing to clear.

It was fair—brutally so. And it didn’t just come from suspicion. It came from experience. Everyone in the room had seen what survival turned people into. What time and loyalty and betrayal did when left to simmer for too long. People didn’t always stay who they were. Especially not out here. Especially not when it came to him.

Abby didn’t blink.

No hesitation. No flicker of uncertainty. She just stood there, spine straight, her voice calm and clean like she'd rehearsed the answer in her head a hundred times. Like she'd hoped someone would ask.

“We have a standing invitation,” she said.

Simple. Direct. Final.

And that simplicity stopped the room. Nora’s brows lifted, her skepticism cracking just slightly at the edges. “What?”

There was something in Abby’s eyes now—unreadable, but fierce. Not emotional. Not pleading. Just… certain. The way someone looked when they were betting on a truth no one else could quite believe in anymore. “She told me,” Abby said. “Before she left. That if we ever needed to find her, to come to Jackson. Said I’d know how. She meant it.”And maybe that didn’t seem like much. But coming from her—from someone who didn’t trust easily, didn’t speak. unless she had reason—that kind of conviction was its own kind of proof. 

“We’ll wait till it warms up a little bit to go down,” Abby said, her voice steady, practical. She crossed her arms again, glancing toward the frost-laced windows, where the pre-dawn light barely touched the snow-covered treetops outside. “Till then, I’ll take first watch.”

There was no discussion. No challenge. Just a quiet, collective understanding that settled over the room like an extra layer of weight. Abby wasn’t asking—she was deciding. The kind of decision that came from experience, from loss, from knowing what it meant to wait too long or move too soon.

She stepped back toward the window, scanning the dark treeline below like she could see through the shadows, through the buildings, through time itself. The fire behind her cracked, casting her silhouette in long, flickering lines against the wall.

There was tension in the room still—questions unasked, fears that hadn’t yet dared to take shape—but no one argued. Not when her shoulders were squared like that. Not when her eyes were fixed like that. They’d come all this way. And now all they could do was wait… and trust that if Sparrow was still out there, she hadn’t forgotten which way home was.

Ellie, 

There’s something going on. My dad and I are on patrol, I think you and Jesse are coming out at 0800. Do me a huuuuuge favor and feed Pedge and Johnny before you leave? You’re the best. Love you.

 -Starry

Ellie blinked down at the note, the familiar messy scrawl of Starry’s handwriting barely legible in the early morning light. Her eyes still heavy with sleep, she rubbed the heel of her palm against one and then glanced up at Jesse, who’d already pulled the note from where it had been pinned crookedly to the doorframe of the makeshift home they’d been crashing in.

The paper fluttered slightly in the morning breeze, creased at the corners, written in blue ink that smudged just enough to prove it had been scribbled in a hurry. There was a faint little coffee stain on the bottom corner. Typical. Starry probably left it right before hauling herself out into the freezing cold.

Jesse was squinting at the note like it was a puzzle. “Pedge and Johnny?”

“Her sheep,” Ellie muttered, already turning toward the small pen at the back of the lot, where two unmistakably disgruntled animals were already bleating in complaint like they knew they’d been left waiting.

“Oh. Right.” Jesse shook his head. “I thought they were, like, cousins or something.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, but she smiled faintly all the same, folding the note once and tucking it into her back pocket. Love you, it had said. It was simple. Rushed. But it still warmed her chest in a way that made the frost bite a little less when she stepped out into the snow.

“Anyway, heard you had quite the night after Doc an’ I left,” Jesse said slowly.

Ellie froze just slightly, her breath catching in that subtle way someone does when they’re suddenly two steps behind in a conversation they thought they were leading. The warmth in her cheeks betrayed her immediately, even in the cold.

“Oh…” she started, trying to play it off—casual, like it was nothing. Like the night hadn’t burned itself into her bloodstream.

“Yeah… yeah, she kissed me,” she muttered, and it came out too quick, too defensive. Her hands shifted awkwardly in her pockets as she looked away, out toward the snow-covered fence line. “It was just Dina being Dina. She was high. She won’t even remember it—”

But Jesse’s expression didn’t shift the way she expected. Because he was not talking about that.

“-Ahh, I was talking about some fight you had with Seth and Joel. You kisseed her?” When his eyebrows lifted and that dry, confused look crossed his face, Ellie felt her stomach dip just slightly, her brain catching up to the part of the story she’d missed. The part that mattered to everyone else. The fight.

Seth. Joel. Raised voices in the middle of a community potluck, threats whispered too loud, pride stung too deep. Ellie had felt the eyes on her afterward, the ones that stuck around long after the shouting stopped. And the worst part? She couldn’t even remember how it started. Only how it felt—hot, sharp, humiliating. Like no matter how long she'd been in Jackson, she was still just half-outside.

Maybe—maybe—she could still save this.

“No.”

One word, sharp and immediate, like it could rewind time, undo the crack that had just formed in Jesse’s expression. But it didn’t. It landed flat, too late, too transparent.

“Wooow, Ellie, c’mon.” His voice wasn’t angry—not yet—but it held that bitter edge, like something was breaking loose under the surface. “We’ve been broken up one week, and you made a move on her?”

Her chest tightened. Oh no. This wasn’t going to be saved.

“I didn’t— I didn’t make—” Her words tangled, stumbled over each other like they were trying to catch up to the damage already done. Her hands moved uselessly at her sides, caught between explanation and defense.

Jesse looked away, jaw tense, the kind of quiet that meant he was trying not to say what he really wanted to.

“Dina—you—it didn’t mean anything!” Ellie’s voice cracked, pushed too loud, too fast. “It’s like when I kissed Starshine, it’s—”

“Whoa—”

She hadn’t meant to say that. Not like that. But now it was out, and the silence it left in its wake was too big to ignore. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she said again, quieter now, trying to shove the words back into their box. “She was probably just trying to make you jealous.” It felt weak even as she said it. Like she didn’t believe it. Like she was hoping he would. Like saying probably was enough to pretend it hadn’t mattered to her at all. 

“It didn’t mean anything, it didn’t. I wouldn’t do that, man—”

Ellie’s words were coming fast, tangled and frantic, her chest tight with the weight of guilt and panic. She’d already started bracing for the fallout—the ruined trust, the cold shoulder, the long silences that would stretch into something permanent. She was already halfway through grieving the friendship when Jesse finally spoke.

“I’m screwing with you, man.” He said it with that infuriating calm, that Jesse calm, the one he used when he was already ten paces ahead of her in the conversation.

“I already know,” he added with a shrug. “Trust me. I don’t care.” Then, without skipping a beat: “C’mon, get dressed. We gotta go.”

Ellie just stared at him. Like the world had tilted on its axis. Like she’d braced for a punch and someone handed her a glass of water instead. Her mouth hung open, caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage as he turned on his heel like nothing happened. She was still stunned when the door started to swing closed behind him. And then, as if on cue—

Wham. She tried to slam it, but his boot caught it just in time, wedging between the frame and the edge. He leaned back in, grin already forming, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“But I do wanna hear the story about how you and Doc kissed—”

“Shut up!” Ellie shouted, voice cracking with horror and a flush creeping up her neck like wildfire.

Jesse just laughed and walked off, whistling like he hadn’t just sent her into cardiac arrest.

---

The ride back to Jackson was steeped in that kind of charged silence—the kind that buzzed under the skin like static, heavy and loud in its own quiet way. No one said a word. Not for a long while. The only sounds were the rhythmic crunch of hooves against packed snow and the soft hush of wind slipping through the trees.

Kat’s jaw was clenched so tight you were pretty sure her molars were grinding into dust. Her posture was rigid, straight-backed and sharp, and her hands gripped the reins like they were the only thing anchoring her to the thin thread of composure she had left. She hadn’t looked at any of you since you left the ruined building, and honestly, that was more terrifying than if she had. There was something about the way she rode—controlled, silent, calculated rage simmering under every movement—that said if anyone so much as breathed wrong, she’d spin her horse around and start yelling. Probably at Ellie. Maybe at you.

You wouldn’t even blame her.

Dina rode ahead of you, shoulders slightly hunched, her eyes scanning the treeline like she was pretending to look for threats just so she didn’t have to meet anyone’s gaze. Every now and then, she would glance back at Ellie, then shake her head like she still hadn’t processed what exactly happened.

And Ellie—Ellie was riding with a smugness that wasn’t on her face, but radiated off her entire being. Like she’d swallowed a firework and it was glowing through her ribs. She said nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just chewed her gum (when did she get gum?), sat too casually in her saddle, and occasionally glanced your way like she knew you were dying to ask her what the hell that little stunt was about.

You didn’t.

Mostly because you weren’t sure you could without laughing.

Snow had started falling sometime in the last mile or so—light at first, soft and drifting like ash. Then steadier, heavier, the kind that came down in thick, quiet curtains and turned everything still. Big, lazy flakes spiraled through the air, melting the second they kissed the warmth of your coat, but clinging stubbornly to your gloves, your eyelashes, your horse’s mane like the forest was trying to dress you in winter’s hush.

The sky stretched wide overhead, a dull, glowing gray that blurred the edges of everything below it. Not dark, not light—just hushed. Like the sun had stepped aside and the world was caught in that in-between moment before breath and after heartbeat. The clouds hung low and heavy, pressing down on the treetops, casting a silvery tone over the snow-dusted ground, and for once, there was no wind. No rustling. Just the steady rhythm of hooves against frost-hardened dirt and the faint, distant creak of saddle leather.

Even the trees seemed to hold their breath. Limbs dusted in white stood frozen in place, not swaying, not shifting, as if nature itself had paused to watch you return.

Jackson’s walls peeked out through the curtain of falling snow in the distance, rising like a quiet promise against the pale horizon. The snowfall softened the world around it, dusting the trees and fences, blanketing the earth in white, but Jackson still stood strong—solid, unmoving. The tall, reinforced walls curved gently around the settlement like a protective arm, worn but reliable. Built not just with wood and steel, but with sweat, fear, and a stubborn kind of hope that had outlasted the worst of what the world had thrown at it.

Warm light flickered from the towers and narrow windows embedded in the higher buildings, casting golden glows onto the snow-drenched rooftops. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney near the mill, the scent of burning wood always the first sign that you were nearing home. From here, you could just barely hear the distant clatter of life—the thump of boots on walkways, the low rumble of voices, the distant bark of a dog. Life was still happening in there. Safe, controlled chaos. A world you could almost call normal.

It wasn’t perfect. The walls had been patched, reinforced too many times to count. Supplies were never plentiful. Grief lived in those homes just as much as laughter. But it was a place people returned to. A place people fought to return to. And seeing it there, through the snow and silence, felt like exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

You shifted slightly in your saddle, your muscles still sore from the earlier chaos, your coat stiff with dried blood, and your nerves barely starting to settle.

“So,” Dina said finally, voice dry and low, her breath visible in the cold. “Anyone wanna explain what that was?”

No one answered.

Not immediately.

Then, from behind you, Ellie’s voice: “I saw an opportunity.”

You closed your eyes.

Kat’s horse snorted.

“I told you not to go in that building,” Kat snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the snowfall. “I told all of you.”

Ellie’s boots creaked against the stirrups as she shifted. “Technically, I fell through the ceiling.”

“Oh my god,” Kat hissed under her breath.

You bit your cheek, hard, to keep the laugh down, the sting grounding you just enough to keep a straight face. Dina didn’t try nearly as hard—she choked on a snort and tried to pass it off as a cough, which only made Kat whip her head around with the kind of glare that could shatter stone. Dina ducked like that might help.

With a quiet exhale and a shake of your head, you eased Birdie into a slower trot until you were riding beside Ellie. She still had that look on her face—just the slightest upward curl at the corner of her mouth, like she was doing a terrible job of pretending she wasn’t thrilled with herself.

You gave her a sideways glance. “Right, so—”

“I am not getting a check-up,” she cut in immediately, not even looking at you. “I refuse.”

Your frown was instant. “No, not that—”

“Not getting poked, not getting prodded, and I’m definitely not answering any of your condescending ‘so where does it hurt’ questions.”

You blinked. “Ellie, I’m not—”

“And if I see you coming at me with stitches, I’m pushing you off your horse.”

You sighed, staring at her with flat disbelief. “Ellie, I wasn’t going to ask about your injuries. I know you’ll lie about them anyway.”

She finally glanced over, eyes squinting in suspicion. “...Then what?”

You hesitated for a beat. Then, quieter, “I was gonna ask why you looked so… pleased with yourself.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked forward again, the wind tugging at the collar of her jacket, snowflakes catching in her lashes.

Then she grinned.

“Because,” she said, voice low, “I told you I’d survive anything.”

You stared at her, your eyes locked on the side of her face as she rode just ahead of you, a little too proud, a little too smug, her breath still visible in the cold air as she grinned like someone who’d just pulled off the world’s dumbest magic trick and somehow made it look cool.

Your heart stuttered. Just a beat. Like it hadn’t been expecting her to say that—like it hadn’t braced for the way her voice had gone low, cocky, soft, all at once.

Because I told you I’d survive anything.

It wasn’t fair. Not the way she said it. Not the way she looked back at you like it meant more than just a joke. Like it was a promise. Or a challenge. Or a quiet confession, half-buried under bravado and bloodstains and the snow still clinging to her shoulders.

You rolled your eyes—hard enough that it bordered on theatrical, the kind of overdone gesture you hoped would disguise the sudden warmth blooming in your chest. You did it out of self-preservation, really. Because if you didn’t, you were either going to smile like an idiot or say something you couldn’t walk back.

It almost worked. Except your face was already flushed. Except your mouth was twitching at the corners. Except your stomach was still doing that dumb fluttering thing like it hadn’t gotten the memo about how dangerous this all was—feelings, not just clickers.

“Yeah? Well, maybe try surviving without falling through buildings next time,”  you shot back, the words sharper than you intended, but laced with something else beneath the sarcasm—fear, maybe. Relief. That awful cocktail that still hadn’t quite left your chest since the moment the floor gave out beneath her.

Your voice wavered just slightly at the end, not enough for her to call it out, but enough for you to hear it in your own ears. Because what you really wanted to say was don’t scare me like that again. That the sound of her crashing through the boards had made your heart stop. That your hands were still shaking, even if you’d tucked them into your coat to hide it.

But instead you smirked, tried to play it cool. Because that’s what the two of you did—dance around the panic, lace your worry in sarcasm, bury care in banter.

Ellie just gave you a crooked smile in return, one corner of her mouth pulling higher than the other. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

“No promises,” she said sweetly, kicking her heels into her horse with a little too much glee, taking off ahead of you like she hadn’t just narrowly avoided death. Snow kicked up behind her, scattered in the air like confetti.

“Wait—!” you called after her, already clicking your heels against Birdie’s sides. Your horse groaned like she was just as exhausted as you were, but still obediently surged forward, hooves pounding against the softening path.

You pulled up alongside Ellie, your breath visible in the cold air, heart thudding more from nerves than the ride. “One more thing! ELLIE!”

She glanced over, wind in her face, eyes bright from the adrenaline and cold. “What?”

“Wh—” you blinked, the cold stinging your eyes, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with your mouth. “Aren’t we gonna slow down?”

Ellie didn’t miss a beat. She snorted, not bothering to look back. “You said one thing.”

You shook your head, brushing snow from your sleeve where it had started to cling, melting slowly through the fabric. The cold was biting at your fingertips, but it didn’t matter. The words came out before you could second-guess them.

“Never mind. Dinner. Tonight.”

That—that—got her attention.

You watched her posture change, subtly but definitely. Her hands tensed slightly on the reins. Her eyes flicked between you and the snowy trail ahead, like she couldn’t decide which one was the real danger. There was hesitation in the silence that followed—just long enough to feel it stretch tight in the space between your horses.

Ellie’s brows pulled together, eyes narrowing, guarded. “Just you—?”

She said it like it might be a trap. Like she wanted to be wrong about what she thought you meant, but didn’t want to hope too hard in case she wasn’t. Her voice was caught somewhere between curiosity and caution, and under that—something quieter. Something almost… tentative.

You recognized it instantly. You felt the same thing. Every time you asked her to stay. Every time you reached first. “No,” you said, voice flat. “Family dinner. Everyone. Benji, Uncle Tommy…my dad. Maria’s idea.”

Her face immediately soured. “No.”

“Ellie, please!” you groaned, reaching out to lightly tug at her coat sleeve like that might physically stop her from riding off, which alone was risky but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. “C’mon. Just one night. You don’t even have to talk that much—just nod, make eye contact, maybe chew your food like a civilized human being.”

“I hate those dinners,” she grumbled, but there was already a crack forming in her resolve, you could hear it. “Everyone stares at me like I’m gonna throw a chair through the window.”

“Then don’t throw a chair through the window,” you deadpanned.

“I only did that once.”

You huffed, eyes narrowing with a small grin you didn’t bother hiding. “Just show up. That’s all I’m asking.”

Ellie hesitated. Slowed a little.

Then, dramatically, she slumped forward over her horse’s neck like the weight of the request had physically crushed her. “Fine.”

“Seriously?”

She peeked over at you, her smirk half-hidden beneath the weight of the wind and the flush in her cheeks from the cold—but her eyes were steady, watching you like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Only if I get to sit next to you.”

Your heart stuttered—just a flicker, like something skipped and landed in the wrong spot—but you forced your mouth not to twitch, forced your voice to stay flat. Cool. Controlled. You swallowed the heat rising in your chest and answered with practiced calm.

“Deal.”

She grinned wider, playful but dangerous, like she’d just secured a win in a game you didn’t realize you were playing. “Then I’m wearing something awful.”

The image flashed across your mind instantly—Ellie showing up to Maria’s family dinner in some god-awful outfit, probably layered in clashing patterns, maybe even sunglasses indoors, just to make a point. You didn’t doubt she’d do it. Hell, she'd probably make a spectacle of it if she knew it’d get a reaction out of you—or even worse, Joel.

“Also expected.”

Her grin turned into something wicked. Mischievous. Proud. Like she was already plotting ways to ruin the evening with precision-level chaos.

“Cool. Can’t wait to traumatize Joel over soup.”

And just like that, she nudged her horse forward again, riding a little faster, snow flicking off her coat as she disappeared into the slow haze of the falling dusk.

You stayed where you were for a moment longer, the cold biting at your ears, your breath fogging up around you—and your heart still thudding that half-beat behind.

Because yeah. She was joking.

Probably.

But it was getting harder to ignore the way your chest fluttered every time she chose to sit beside you. The way her shoulder would brush yours like it meant nothing, but always lingered just long enough to mean something. The way she smiled like she knew exactly how to disarm you with it. The way she said your name like it was easy—like it belonged to her lips, like it was hers to keep.

And it wasn’t fair. Because you’d made your choice years ago. Back when the world was a little more on fire, and your heart was still too tangled up in grief and guilt to know the difference between affection and safety.

You remembered that day—clear as anything. You’d looked her in the eye and said, We’re like sisters. Said it with a shrug, with a practiced ease that masked the crack in your voice. Told her you were best friends. That the two of you could survive anything. And maybe you believed it. Maybe you needed to.

Because you’d already packed those kinds of feelings away. Neatly. Quietly. Locked them behind doors labeled not now, and not again, and never with her—because those keys had once belonged to someone else. Someone who left. Or disappeared. Or someone you had to leave behind, with no promises and no closure. Just a memory and a dull ache.

And god that had taken awhile to get over. 

And you told yourself that was enough. Being alone was enough, because you were alive and you could stay alive. That is was enough and everything else was just…just…

But now… now Ellie was still here. Still fighting. Still falling through floors and throwing out dinner invitations like they were life preservers.

— 

Your steps were slow into the house—not your own, or rather not technically yours. Joel’s, officially. But this wasn’t his place. This was Tommy and Maria’s, just a few houses down, same creaky porch steps, same frosted windowpanes softened by snow. You barely made a sound as you nudged the back door open with your hip, arms full of a carefully packed box.

It was second nature to try here when you couldn’t find your father at home. He and Tommy had a way of being predictably unpredictable—either knee-deep in a project, halfway across town on a supply check, or sitting in near silence at the kitchen table, sharing the kind of conversation that didn’t require many words.

The door gave with a soft creak, the warm smell of wood and something vaguely herby—probably whatever Maria had brewed earlier—wrapping around you like a blanket. You stepped inside, boots leaving faint, melting tracks on the rug as you closed the door behind you with a gentle nudge of your foot.

The box in your arms was heavier than it looked. Full of scavenged medical supplies: a blood pressure cuff, a couple of thermometers, three half-used glucose kits, a box of alcohol swabs, and a splint that had definitely seen better days but would still do the trick. There were a few sealed medication bottles too—basic painkillers, some antibiotics. Nothing rare, but valuable enough that you carried them like gold. You’d even found a few rolls of gauze, two cracked cold packs, and an unopened bandage wrap.

Everything inside was organized with almost compulsive care, labels facing the same direction, tape rolls tucked into corners, syringes banded and capped. You’d packed it the way you packed your fear: neatly, methodically, pretending it wasn’t there at all.

As soon as you opened the door, the warm, savory scent of stew wrapped around you like a wool blanket—thick with herbs, something tomato-based, maybe beef, and definitely Maria’s doing. Your stomach gave an immediate, almost rude little growl in response, and you let out a content hum, already feeling the warmth of the house pulling the cold from your bones.

You didn’t even think about it when you called out, voice raised just enough to carry through the house: “Auntie? Uncle Tommy?”

And that was apparently the magic phrase.

Because before the echo of your voice even faded, you were greeted not by Maria or Tommy—but by the unmistakable thunder of tiny feet on hardwood.

A heartbeat later, a very recognizable four-year-old came tumbling down the stairs.

Not falling—tumbling. Purposefully chaotic, arms flailing for balance, one sock on, one sock missing entirely, a mop of curly brown hair bouncing with every step as he barrelled his way down like gravity had personally challenged him to a race.

You barely had time to set down the box of medical supplies before he was launching himself across the entryway with full commitment, little legs pumping like he was chasing down the last slice of cake in the world.

“Staaaaar!” he yelled, voice high and delighted as he flung himself at your knees.

You barely caught him in time, stumbling back a step as his arms wrapped around your thighs, clinging to you like a human koala. His face was already squished into your jacket, giggling like a maniac.

“Whoa—hey, hey! Careful, I’m armed with thermometers,” you laughed, one arm instinctively wrapping around his small frame to keep him from toppling both of you over.

He tilted his head back, cheeks flushed from his epic stairway descent, curls sticking to his forehead in wild loops, eyes bright with that particular brand of mischief only four-year-olds could possess—like he knew he’d startled you and was very pleased about it.

“Did you bring boo-boo stuff?” he asked, voice breathless with excitement, his little hands clutching the front of your jacket like he was fully prepared to drag you into a pretend triage situation right there in the entryway.

You nodded solemnly, like it was a matter of national importance. “A whole box.”

His mouth dropped open in a tiny gasp, awe widening his eyes. “Cool,” he breathed, like you’d just told him you brought a dragon instead.

The grip he had on your coat tightened.

You could already see the wheels turning in his head.

“Does it have the stingy spray?” he asked with a hopeful wince. “The one that makes your leg cry but then you feel better?”

“Yeah,” you said with a grin, tapping the side of your nose. “Hidden at the bottom. Top secret.”

“Whoa,” he whispered. “I’m gonna get a fake injury so we can use it.”

“Let’s not,” you said, picking him up and balancing him on your hip as he leaned into you like he’d done it a hundred times—which, to be fair, he had. “Let’s pretend no one gets hurt today. Deal?”

He stuck out his pinky. You shook it with exaggerated seriousness.

Then he leaned in close and whispered, “But if someone does, I get to be your helper.”

“Well obviously, Auntie Starshine and Medical professional Benji.” You chripped, which earned a gleaming smile from the young boy. 

From somewhere down the hall, Maria’s voice called out, laced with affection and the usual exasperation of someone parenting a human rocket. “Benji! Did you just tackle our guest again?!”

“Starry’s not a guest,” Benji mumbled into your coat, grinning. “She lives here too.”

With a soft smile curling on your lips, you carried Benji—still clinging to you like a particularly affectionate barnacle—into the heart of the home. The kitchen was a swirl of warmth and motion, every corner alive with sound or scent or the gentle clatter of domesticity that felt almost sacred in this world.

The table was already set for six. Plates stacked with care, mismatched mugs at each seat, silverware wrapped in folded cloth napkins that didn’t match but felt right. A small jar of preserved jam sat at the center beside a half-empty salt shaker and a candle that had been burned down to a stub and lit again anyway.

The stove was alive—one pot bubbling with something thick and savory, the scent of herbs and garlic and slow-cooked meat filling the air. Something else baked in the oven, sweet and spiced, the kind of smell that reached down into your ribs and tugged gently on childhood. A kettle was whistling low, not shrill yet, just humming, and the old percolator rattled faintly beside it, coffee bubbling in rhythmic hiccups like it was trying to keep time with the household.

You set Benji down gently, ruffling his hair as he scampered off toward the table to inspect exactly which mug he wanted for dinner—even though he didn’t drink anything but warm milk and watered-down juice.

Beside the stove, her back to you, Maria was working with that effortless multitasking ease only a mom—or a woman with too much experience keeping things together—could master. She stirred one pot with her right hand and flipped something in a cast-iron skillet with her left, barely glancing away from the bubbling stew.

You stepped up beside her, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets, and hummed quietly as you leaned over to peer into the pot.

“Smells like someone’s trying to win Aunt of the Year again,” you teased, eyes twinkling.

Maria gave a sideways glance without missing a beat. “I am Aunr of the Year. Every year.”

You chuckled. “Well, your competition is a four-year-old with a spoon and a lot of opinions.”

She smiled, lips tugging up as she handed you the wooden spoon without looking. “Taste that and tell me if it needs salt. But don’t lie to spare my ego.”

“Your ego’s unsinkable,” you muttered as you took the spoon, carefully blowing on the broth before tasting it.

Benji let out a triumphant “I found the red cup!” from the other room.

Maria just smirked. “Told you.” 

Benji’s voice echoed from the dining room again, now narrating his highly scientific mug-placement process with the kind of intense focus only small children possess. You could hear him tapping things on the table and muttering about “symmetry” like he knew what it meant.

You were still mid-eye roll when Maria’s smirk faded into something quieter, her gaze lingering on the pot just long enough to mark the shift in atmosphere. She turned slightly, the ladle resting on the edge of the pot, and looked at you—not sharp, but deliberate. Measured.

“So,” she said carefully, “the market.”

You stiffened a little, your hand still loosely holding the spoon, suddenly very interested in stirring the stew again.

“Oh, please don’t,” you sighed, not quite meeting her eyes. “We told you what happened.”

“You told us,” Maria repeated slowly, folding her arms across her chest. “But I know you. I know Ellie. I know Dina. And I definitely know Kat. What you told me was a report. What I’m asking for is the truth.”

You tried to scoff, to laugh it off, but it came out thin. “What part of ‘we cleared the area and fell through the floor’ sounded untrue?”

Maria raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “The part where you all made it home in one piece, and no one’s limping or sobbing—but Ellie looked smug, Kat looked homicidal, and you walked in like you were trying not to cry or throw up. Or both.”

You didn’t say anything. You just pressed your palm to the edge of the counter and focused on the burn still healing beneath your bandage. It wasn’t much, but the sting helped ground you.

“Starshine,” Maria said more softly now, her voice dropping into that calm, patient tone she only used when you were trying very hard not to unravel. “I’m not mad. I’m not here to scold. But I need to know what I don’t know.”

You looked at her then—really looked at her. The lines on her face from years of holding too many things together. The quiet concern behind the strength. She wasn’t just asking because she was Maria. She was asking because she was family.

You swallowed thickly. “It was close,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud would make it real all over again. “Like… really close. Ellie went down hard. I thought—” You stopped, the words catching in your throat like glass. You cleared it roughly. “There were about eight clickers… and a stalker. Second and third stages of infection. All of which have been eliminated. I don’t—We took care of it.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the snow gathering on the roof. Maria didn’t speak right away, just exhaled slowly through her nose, the corners of her mouth twitching downward like she was biting back a thousand things at once—anger, fear, maybe just exhaustion.

“You fuckin’ Millers,” she muttered, shaking her head as she turned back to the stove. “You and your emotionally crippled ass instincts to not ask for help. Jesus.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Because she wasn’t wrong.

She stirred the stew once, twice, like she was channeling something into the motion. Then she looked over her shoulder, eyebrows arched, voice a little tighter now. “And you checked yourself and the other two?”

You nodded firmly, pulling your coat back to show the bandage peeking out from under your sleeve. “Course. Dina’s clean, just a few bruises. Ellie—couple scrapes. She’ll pretend she’s dying, but she’s fine.”

Maria narrowed her eyes for a moment, assessing you like she was reading your heartbeat through your face alone. You met her gaze without flinching. Barely.

“Okay,” Maria said finally, turning the heat down on the stove with a decisive twist of her wrist. The bubbling stew quieted to a soft simmer, the warm, rich scent still curling through the air like a comfort blanket. She didn’t look at you this time, just stared down at the pot as she added, “But if any of you start coughing, twitching, or brooding more than usual, I will sedate you and lock you in the pantry.”

You huffed a quiet laugh—half breath, half disbelief. It was her usual deadpan humor, but there was an edge under it. She meant it more than not.

Then she glanced at you again, one brow arching knowingly. “Oh. Ellie’s coming?”

You hesitated, your fingers tapping the edge of the counter lightly. The question was simple, but the answer never was.

You took a slow breath through your nose and gave a small nod. “Said she would.” A pause. “But… I doubt it.”

It hung there for a moment—between the two of you. You weren’t even sure if you meant she wouldn’t come to dinner… or that she just wouldn’t stay long enough to matter.

Maria didn’t press. She never did when the subject turned into that.

She just gave a single, understanding nod and turned toward the cabinet, already pulling out another plate from the stack. “I’ll still get one ready.”

And somehow, the simple act of that—of someone setting a place for her even when she probably wouldn’t show—meant more than any question or lecture or well-meaning warning ever could.

– 

Later that night, you sat between Joel’s legs on the living room floor, your back resting gently against the curve of his knees, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around them. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a soft amber glow across the room, throwing long shadows that danced over the worn floorboards and the quiet clutter of home—books, boots, a half-finished mug of coffee left forgotten on the side table.

Your eyes stared ahead, unfocused, fixed somewhere past the flickering flame, but your mind was far from the fire. It had been a long day—longer than most—and the exhaustion had settled in your bones, heavy and still.

Joel worked quietly behind you, fingers deft and gentle as they threaded through your hair. His calloused hands—hands that had held rifles, built fences, broken bones—moved with surprising softness, parting strands with a kind of reverence. There was a rhythm to it, a muscle memory in his movements that felt older than the man himself, as if braiding your hair was something etched into his bones, even if you both knew that wasn’t quite true.

But it was familiar.

He used to do this almost every morning—back in the QZ, when days started with ration lines and the metallic tang of burning trash. You were younger then. Smaller. The back of your head barely reached his chest when you sat in front of him on the floor. He'd sit cross-legged, still half-dressed for patrol, and you’d hand him your brush without a word, already knowing what came next.

While Tess mapped routes and mumbled curses at broken radios in the background, Joel would braid your hair by the first light of dawn, his brows furrowed like he was doing surgery. It was always a little too tight, never symmetrical, and he'd mutter under his breath the entire time—but he'd do it. Every damn time. And right before he tied the band in place, the sky would shift from navy to gold, and the birds would start to sing.

That was your cue.

A soft snap of the band. A low grunt of approval.

And then the day would begin.

Now, years later, it felt the same. The tension in your shoulders slowly melted with each pull of the braid. The quiet between you wasn’t heavy—it was full, layered with memory, with comfort, with all the things you didn’t need to say.

Joel cleared his throat softly behind you, not to speak, just to clear the space. His fingers paused at the nape of your neck, holding the braid in place as if he needed to linger there a second longer. Maybe for your sake. Maybe for his. Outside, the wind rustled against the windows, soft and distant.

After a moment, you felt the familiar tension of the band wrapping around the end of your braid—tight, secure. Then, the soft press of a kiss to the crown of your head. It was quiet, unceremonious, but you felt it like a warm ripple down your spine.

“Alright,” Joel murmured, voice low and rough with sleep or age or something heavier. “Finished up.”

“Mmm,” was all you could manage, not even bothering to lift your head from where it leaned slightly back against his knee.

He paused. It took him about a millionth of a second to realize you had absolutely no intention of moving. No desire to get up, no instinct to shift into conversation or activity or anything else. Just you, settled there on the floor in front of him like a weight he wasn’t in any rush to put down.

So he adjusted. Shifted just enough so his back pressed deeper into the couch, knees settling on either side of you with a soft creak. One hand rested loosely on his thigh, the other absentmindedly smoothing down the braid he'd just finished—like some part of him wasn’t ready to stop.

“How was the trip?” he asked after a beat, his voice careful. Not pressing. Not yet.

You let out a short, scoffed laugh—half amusement, half exhaustion. It wasn’t really funny, but the sound escaped you anyway. The kind of laugh that said you wouldn’t believe me if I tried.

Joel’s hand paused against your hair.

“Well,” he said, quieter this time, “I ain’t gonna pretend I didn’t hear about it.”

And that was Joel in a nutshell—never one to pry, never demanding answers, but letting you know that the door was open, that he knew. That he’d already heard from Maria, or Tommy, or someone else in town who’d used the word clickers and floor collapse in the same breath, and he’d been sitting with that knowledge ever since, waiting for you to offer the rest.

Waiting like he always did—silent, steady, and there.

It took a moment, the kind that stretched between breaths, heavy and quiet.

Then your voice came, rough around the edges. “I miss…” You trailed off, shaking your head like you could scatter the thought before it solidified. “God, I’m just missing stuff today.”

Joel didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just let the words settle.

“Like?” he asked after a moment, his voice low, neutral, soft in that way only he could make feel like a safety net instead of a pry.

“Mom.” The word left you faster than you meant it to—too sharp, too unfiltered—but it was there now. You breathed around it. “I miss FEDRA,” you said next, and then winced, already bracing for the look. “Which is messed up, right? I know. But I miss… being a kid. I miss the routine. The school. The drills. Even the goddamn whistles.”

You laughed softly, but it broke halfway through.

“I miss my friends,” you continued, voice softening to almost nothing. “I miss stupid things, like canned peaches. And the sound of the elevator in our old apartment building. I miss… I dunno. When it was just us.”

Joel didn’t say anything. He just stayed there behind you, his presence like a wall against the chaos of the world outside. His hand rested at the base of your braid, thumb tracing lazy, slow lines over the woven strands—not rushing you, not offering solutions, just being there.

“I know it wasn’t easy,” you murmured, voice fraying at the edges. “It was never easy. But at least it made sense. At least I knew who the bad guys were. At least… you were always right there.”

Your words drifted into the room like smoke, too heavy to disappear but too fragile to hold.

The fire crackled, low and steady, and Joel’s hand moved again—smoothing over your hair with the same careful pressure he used when you were a kid and couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just comfort. It was something like apology. Like I hear you. I remember, too.

“I just…” you swallowed thickly, curling in tighter on yourself, “I feel like everything has been in this constant state of change, and I… I just need a minute. Just one. To breathe. To not have to be anything.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Joel’s voice, low and careful: “You wanna stay in the house?”

You shook your head without looking up. “No. No, we gotta go to the silly prom- wait no sorry, Community uniting Potluck.”  Your tone was flat, tired, a little bit amused, a little bit exasperated. “Auntie wants me to be on the board. So I gotta, go be perfect Doctor Miller.”

“Ah,” Joel said, like that explained everything. “So that’s it?”

You laughed once—sharp and dry. “No. That’s not the main issue.”

He didn’t ask what was. He didn’t have to. He just made a low, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat—Mm...—and let the silence speak.

Because he already knew. He always did.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “Yeah.”

Joel nodded, hand resting once more on the back of your head with all the strength and softness of someone who’s spent too much time surviving and still found room to care.

“Let’s go, baby,” he said quietly, with the weight of everything you didn’t have to explain resting gently in the space between you.

And just like that, you stood—not because you were ready, but because he was standing too. Because you didn’t have to do it alone.

–

The fires outside crackled cheerfully, ringed by bundled-up children who shrieked and giggled as they danced around them, their breath puffing out in little clouds that faded into the falling snow. The flames lit their faces like lanterns, soft and golden, and for a moment—just a moment—it all felt untouched by grief. The snowfall was light, drifting in lazy spirals from the sky, clinging to hair and coats and lashes like a quiet blessing. The air held that sharp, clean cold, brisk enough to sting the lungs but not enough to chase people inside. It was the kind of night that almost pretended the world hadn’t ended.

Inside, it was warmth on every surface—wood-paneled walls, coats draped over chairs, the air heavy with the scent of slow-cooked meat, firewood, and faintly-spiced cider. Laughter moved like a current through the room, pulling people along with it. There were no harsh lines of rank or routine tonight—only neighbors chatting like old friends, kids weaving between legs, and couples caught in private smiles.

Some debated over plans—gardening for spring, a new water line, maybe rebuilding the west fence. Others hovered near tables lined with drinks, cups filled with precious liquid—wine, actual wine, brewed and hoarded and bartered for over months of planning. It was the kind of drink that carried weight, not just for its rarity but because it meant hope. Forward thinking. Celebration.

And the lights. The lights were bright and steady, cutting through the shadows with a warmth the fire couldn’t reach. They glowed not because of luck or leftover fuel, but because someone—probably Maria, probably four other people, too—had shut down the outer grids earlier that week, calculated it down to the second, and made sure tonight had light. Because sometimes, the illusion of normalcy needed a little engineering.

You were in the middle of a conversation, half-laughing, half-listening, as the teenager you’d once treated animatedly recounted something about school—how she was finally allowed back into gardening duty, how she swore the antibiotics you gave her saved not only her leg but also her chances with the girl she liked. Her parents stood nearby, quieter but equally grateful, their nods full of warmth, eyes soft with the kind of gratitude that didn’t need to be loud.

You’d accepted their thanks with the usual mix of humility and awkwardness—because honestly, you’d just done your job, and if the infection had gone a day longer, it might’ve ended very differently. But tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight, it was about the after. The surviving. The living.

You were just leaning into another story when you heard your name called—louder than most voices, in that unmistakable friendly ambush tone.

You turned, instinctively polite, hand on the girl’s arm as you murmured, “One sec.” Then you pivoted, and of course it was Jesse.

There he stood, near the drink table, with that ever-present warmth in his expression and a drink in hand like he was the host of a party you’d forgotten you RSVP’d to.

“Doctor Miller,” he said with far too much formality, his grin betraying the mock-seriousness in his tone.

“Jesus, I—” you blinked, nearly tripping over your own surprise and the suddenness of the address.

“Ah ah ah!” Jesse said, stepping forward like he was about to present you with an award. “I heard about the appendix thing.”

You let your head fall back with a sigh, a groan half-caught in your throat. “Why is that such a point of conversation?”

Jesse just sipped from his cup, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You literally performed surgery with your dad reading out instructions like it was the apocalypse version of a cooking show.”

“It was the apocalypse version of a cooking show,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes. “Fine. What is it?”

“I just came to tell you,” Jesse said, tone dipping into that theatrical seriousness he wore like a second skin, “that you’re officially cooler than me now. And I hate that.”

You raised a brow, sipping cautiously from your cup. “That was the line? The appendix?”

“That, and the fact that Maria won’t shut up about putting you on the board.”

Your smile faltered—just a flicker, but enough to be noticeable. The weight of that word board settled onto your shoulders like snow that didn’t melt.

“God, no,” you muttered, eyes drifting past him for a moment. “Trust me. I am painfully aware of her scheming.”

Jesse chuckled, but it faded fast when he caught the look on your face. Not dread, exactly. More like… tiredness. That deep, slow kind of tired that doesn’t come from one bad night’s sleep but from weeks of holding everything up and together and still being told you need to do more.

“She corner you again?” he asked gently.

You gave him a long-suffering look. “At least twice a week. She brings food now. Like it’s some sort of bribe-slash-threat.”

He snorted. “That’s the Maria Method. You say no, she gives you stew. You say no again, she makes you feel like saying yes is your idea.”

“And then you’re sitting at a table with a bunch of people twice your age talking about zoning codes and water lines,” you deadpanned.

“Don’t forget the new compost system,” he added, raising his cup in mock-honor.

You groaned. “Kill me.”

But Jesse just smiled and bumped his shoulder against yours. “Look, all I’m saying is… she wouldn’t be pushing so hard if she didn’t believe in you. Everyone does.”

You looked at him, surprised by the shift in tone—and maybe a little disarmed by how genuine he sounded. The weight didn’t disappear, but something in your chest loosened just a little.

You took a sip of your drink and let out a breath. “You trying to convince me to say yes?”

Jesse gave you a look of mock offense, clutching his chest like you’d wounded him. “Don’t assume I care that much,” he drawled, lips twitching into a grin. “But I do wanna make sure I’m on the good side of the Jackson royal family.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And that is exactly why I say it’s a bad idea—put me on the board and suddenly you’re gonna have people accusing us of nepotism and cult politics.”

“Hey, if the crown fits—”

“Starshine.”

The voice came from behind you. Low. Familiar. Soft enough to stop you mid-sentence but loud enough to send a ripple through your chest.

Your ramble died in your throat instantly.

You turned, slowly, instinctively, your whole body already shifting before your mind caught up.

And there she was.

Ellie.

Your breath caught—not from shock, not exactly. More like… disbelief laced with something warmer. Something stupid and soft that settled beneath your ribs and flickered, like someone had finally lit a candle in a room you'd forgotten was dark.

The look of faint distress still creasing your features melted into a quiet, confused smile. Not wide. Not exaggerated. Just real. Just there.

“…Ellie,” you said, the name falling from your lips like it had been waiting there all night.

She stood just a few feet away, shoulders dusted with snow, cheeks flushed from the cold, hands shoved into her jean pockets. Her eyes flicked between you and Jesse and then back again, something unreadable—but not unkind—in her expression.

“I wanted to say sorry,” Ellie said, voice quieter now, the usual sarcastic edge completely absent. “For not coming. I…I had something.”

You blinked, the words catching you a little off guard—not because they were harsh, but because they weren’t. Because you hadn’t expected them. Hadn’t expected her.

Your mouth opened, then closed again, and you gave a short, uncertain laugh, rubbing your thumb along the rim of your cup before answering. “Oh. Um… I won’t lie, I wasn’t expecting you to.”

Your eyes finally met hers, and she didn’t look away. There was something heavy but earnest in her stare. Not guilt exactly—Ellie rarely let herself wear guilt. But something close. Something honest.

“But… but thanks,” you added, the words awkward, small, but true. 

She nodded once, stuffing her hands deeper into her pockets like she was keeping herself from saying more. The space between you felt strangely fragile, like one wrong word could tip the moment into something neither of you were ready to deal with. 

You were just about to say something—some awkward, forced version of small talk, the kind that people used when they didn’t know how to admit they’d shared too much history to pretend they were strangers. Something dumb like how’ve you been, as if you hadn’t once carried her through a blizzard, or held her hand through the shakes of a fever, or—taken a bullet for her, like it was just another part of the job. As if everything you’d survived together could be neatly folded and tucked beneath the word complicated.

But you never got the chance.

Because Dina arrived like a gust of warmth—cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright, smile already wide like she’d been halfway through laughing before she even spotted you.

“Oh god, hi,” she grinned, reaching out to grab your arm like you were mid-conversation.

“Hi,” you offered, startled but unable to stop yourself from smiling back.

She clocked your cup immediately and wrinkled her nose. “What’s that?”

“…Water?”

“Gross,” she declared. “Right, you can’t be fun anymore.”

Before you could respond, she turned smoothly toward Jesse, who barely had time to raise a brow before she snagged his cup right out of his hand. With no hesitation, she downed what remained—maybe three fingers’ worth of whiskey—like it was water, then handed the empty cup back to him with a triumphant little smirk.

Jesse blinked. “Okay.”

“Anyway,” Dina said, already shifting her attention to Ellie, who had said nothing, done nothing, and yet somehow looked like she’d just been hit with a snowball. “What took you so long? Let’s go.”

And just like that, Ellie was being tugged away, blinking, looking over her shoulder once, maybe twice. But she didn’t fight it.

You stood there with your untouched cup of water, still trying to remember how breathing worked. Your chest was tight—not painfully, just enough to remind you that moments like that, with her, never seemed to unfold the way you imagined. Or wanted. Or needed.

You let out a huff and leaned back against the table behind you, the wood creaking slightly beneath your weight. You stared down into your drink like it held some kind of answer, some kind of reason for why everything always seemed to pull her just far enough out of reach.

Jesse stood next to you, quiet for a beat too long. Then, dry as ever, he said, “You’re so, so sad.”

You snapped your eyes to him, frowning. “Says you.” The words came out sharper than you intended, your voice cutting through the warmth of the room like a knife. His brows lifted just slightly, but he didn’t flinch.

You winced, already regretting it. “Fuck. Sorry, Jess. I didn’t mean—” You sighed again, running a hand through your hair. “You two’ll be back together in two weeks. Probably less.”

Jesse didn’t respond. Not right away.

Instead, he looked ahead—toward the crowd, toward where Ellie and Dina had disappeared through the flickering lights and laughter and music. You followed his gaze without meaning to, your eyes landing on the same spot where their figures were still barely visible, spinning slightly in the crowd.

And then Jesse spoke, voice flat and certain in a way that made your stomach drop.

“Not gonna happen.”

You didn’t move.

Because you saw it too.

The way Dina leaned into Ellie. The way Ellie let her. The way she didn’t look back again—not this time.

And just like that, your stomach sank to meet Jesse’s in that quiet, brittle place. That hollow ache where hope used to sit before reality laid it bare. No final words. No dramatic ending. Just… gone.

You let out a low sigh and glanced sideways at Jesse, your voice dry and only half-joking. “I have the key to the liquor cabinet at the parlor. Wanna get drunk and cry about… that?”

Jesse tilted his head like he was giving it serious thought, then gave a shrug. “I’ll take you up on the liquor.” He pointed a finger at you. “But you’ll be doing all the crying.”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, already reaching for your coat. “Uh-huh. You were screaming bloody murder when I popped your shoulder back in, don’t give me that ‘I’m tough shit’ act.”

He scoffed, following your lead. “That was a reasonable amount of screaming, and also you are not licensed—”

“You’re welcome.”

As the two of you made your way through the thinning crowd toward the exit, coats in hand, boots crunching faintly against the snow tracked inside, you passed by your father.

Joel was mid-conversation with Tommy, something quiet and practical, as usual. He barely broke stride as he leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple with the same ease he always had—habitual and grounding, like muscle memory. Like reassurance that he was there even when he didn’t know what you were carrying.

You paused, just for a second, letting yourself lean into it before moving on. Your hand brushed his side gently, a silent thank-you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. He just gave your shoulder a soft squeeze as you passed.

It was barely ten feet outside of the barn when it happened—one moment filled with the crunch of snow underfoot and the sharp bite of winter air against flushed skin, and then—

“Hey! HEY—SOMEONE GET JOEL.”

The voice cut through the air like a gunshot, high and panicked, bouncing off the barn’s timber walls and echoing out into the frozen dark. It wasn’t the kind of shout people made for attention. It was the kind that grabbed your spine and jerked. Urgent. Unmistakably real.

You and Jesse froze.

Absolutely still. Like the cold itself had reached up and grabbed you by the throat.

You had one arm halfway into your coat, your scarf still tangled around your neck like you hadn’t figured out which way to wrap it yet. Jesse’s hand was hovering just above his jacket’s zipper, his expression shifting from relaxed to razor-sharp in the span of a heartbeat.

The firelight from the barn behind you still flickered warm, casting long shadows on the snow. Laughter and voices inside hadn’t even registered what had just been screamed. Not yet.

But you had. Your breath caught halfway out of your chest.

You weren’t sure if it was the name—Joel—or the tone that undid you. Maybe both. Maybe it was the way the voice cracked in the second scream. Or the sound of boots scrambling in the snow a few feet ahead. Maybe it was the sound of fear, the real kind. The kind that people in Jackson didn’t yell with unless something had truly gone wrong.

You and Jesse exchanged a look—sharp, eyes wide but saying nothing. You didn’t need to. The shared tension passed between you like a second language.

And then you were moving.

Coat half on, scarf flapping, boots barely dug in—you didn’t wait for instructions, didn’t think about the liquor cabinet, or Ellie, or Dina, or the awkward ache in your chest that had brought you out here in the first place. Because none of it mattered anymore. Not in this moment.

Before you could even make it to the barn’s side doors—before the fear in your chest had a chance to take shape, to form into any concrete thought—Ellie stormed out. She moved like a force of nature, all sharp limbs and quick, furious steps, shoving past the swinging doors with her jaw clenched and her eyes burning.

You turned on instinct, already reaching out for her. “Ellie—” Her name left your lips fast, too fast, like maybe if you said it quick enough you could slow her down. Like it could pull her back.

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look at you.

Her shoulders were tight, her eyes locked ahead, and her whole body radiated that quiet, dangerous kind of rage that made people scatter. She pushed through the snow like it wasn’t even there, bootprints deep and wild behind her.

“Ellie, wait!” you said again, following after her a step, your hand still outstretched, fingers brushing nothing but cold air.

She didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

And in that split second of frozen hesitation—scarf still dangling from your shoulders, coat still undone—you realized something had happened. Something bad.

Jesse, ever the comedian—even with the tension still strung tight in the air, even with the snow barely settling from Ellie’s storm of an exit—broke the silence the only way he knew how.

“…So,” he said, low and cautious, but with a hint of dry humor curling around the edges of his voice, “there’s this bottle of Jack I’ve seen… tucked behind the flour bins in the parlor kitchen.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes wide with disbelief, breath still caught halfway in your throat. “Jesse.”

He held up his hands defensively, stepping a little closer, his expression the perfect mask of mock-seriousness. “I’m just saying. If whatever the hell that was has anything to do with Joel, and Ellie’s walking out like the goddamn barn’s on fire—then yeah, I’m gonna need whiskey.”

You almost wanted to laugh. Almost. But your stomach was still too tight, the air felt too thin, and your thoughts wouldn’t stop circling like buzzards. Your hand still hung in the air, halfway open from where you’d tried to grab Ellie—like some part of you hadn’t gotten the message that she was already gone.

“Fuck,” you breathed out, voice low, hollow. “Yeah. Just… I’m gonna take mine to-go.”

Jesse, ever the master of emotional whiplash, gave you a grin that was a little too smug for the moment, but somehow not entirely unwelcome.

“Awe,” he said, mock-pouting, “but I was so looking forward to your little sapphic rambles.”

You shot him a flat, exhausted glare as you pulled your coat fully on and adjusted your scarf with way too much force.

“Shut up.”

He gave you a half-salute, stepping back toward the barn doors with an exaggerated bow. “Yes, your majesty.” Despite yourself, your lips twitched—just slightly. Just enough to make the ache in your chest feel almost bearable for half a second.

--

Age: 11 

“Now,” Tess said firmly, her voice cutting through the heavy static of alarms echoing in the distance. She reached forward, her hands steady as she straightened the collar of your shirt. Her fingers lingered for a second too long—not out of fussiness, but as if she needed something to do, something to anchor herself before the chaos really began. “Rules for when we leave the QZ?”

The world around you was already shaking. The red glow of emergency lights painted the alleyway in flashes, and the distant shout of FEDRA orders crackled like broken glass. You were huddled low, crouched in the grime of a half-collapsed drainage trench, knees pulled to your chest, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out everything else.

Still, you heard her. You always heard her.

Squinting against the darkness, you tried to make her out through the blur of light and fear. The high beams from a patrol truck passed over you both like a sweeping hand, and you flinched, instinctively ducking lower.

From your hidden spot in the muck, you mumbled out the rules. You knew them by heart. “Don’t get bit… don’t stray too far… make sure I got a gun or knife…” You paused, the words automatic but heavy. “Think first, hurt later. If you or Dad go down… I run.”

Tess stilled.

The noise around you didn't stop—the alarms, the shouting, the thudding boots on concrete—but there was a moment, brief and solemn, where it felt like the only two people left in the world were her and you.

She looked at you, really looked, and in your eyes, she saw the weight those rules carried. Not recited from duty or drilled repetition—but remembered, clung to, because they were the only things keeping you from falling apart.

There was a pause.

Then Tess gave a small, approving nod, eyes sharp but warm with something deeper. Pride. Maybe guilt. Maybe both. “Atta girl,” she said softly, one hand briefly brushing over the back of your head before she turned back toward the shadows.

– .

Age: 14

“Whistle low,” the woman said, crouched in front of you with blood on her hands that didn’t look like it was hers. Or maybe it was. You couldn’t tell anymore. Her voice was level, like this was just another lesson. Like she wasn’t speaking over the sound of explosions and screaming and that awful, wet gurgling roar of something inhuman getting closer.

Your back was pressed against a crumbling concrete wall, spine digging into the jagged edge of an exposed rebar rod, but you barely felt it. Knees tucked up to your chest, arms curled around them in a grip so tight your knuckles had gone white, but even that was slipping now. Your fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. You could still feel the echo of your knife handle in your palm—the last place it had been before it fell. Or before you dropped it. Or threw it. You didn’t even know. Just that it was gone now.

The alley smelled like wet metal, smoke, and piss. There was something rotting behind the dumpster nearby, but it was masked by the stronger scent of blood—fresh blood, hot and sharp. It had soaked into the knees of your pants without you realizing it, and every breath you took tasted like copper.

Everything around you was loud. Not just the gunfire in the distance, or the thundering boom of explosives—though those still made your ears ring—but the world felt loud. The static in your brain. The thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat in your head. The ragged sound of your own breathing, which no matter how hard you tried, wouldn’t come quiet.

Everything was red. Not just the blood. But the lights, the flares, the way the flames danced against the buildings nearby, turning the snow to slurry and shadow. It made the world feel wrong—like you were inside of a nightmare your body hadn’t caught up to yet.

And the cold? The cold didn’t even feel cold anymore. Not the kind you could shiver through, anyway. It felt like something deep had frozen inside your chest and was sitting there, heavy and still, like ice pressed right up against your heart. You didn’t know if you were shaking from the temperature or from the fear, or both, or neither. It all blurred together into this weird, unreal float.

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes. Not just from the smoke, though that helped. You hadn’t cried yet—not really. Not like you wanted to. Not like your body ached to. There’d been no time, no space to be a kid. And it felt like if you started now, you might never stop. You might cry yourself empty. And then what would be left?

She was crouched in front of you. The woman. You didn’t even know her name. She’d pulled you out of the collapsed hallway, shoved you behind this half-dead truck, and told you to stay.

Now she was looking at you. Her face streaked with soot, a tear in her sleeve, blood smeared across her forearm—but her eyes were clear. Focused. Calm. She looked at you like she needed you to be older than you were. Like she knew you were eleven but didn’t have time to treat you like it. Like she expected you to keep it together, because if you didn’t—well, the math didn’t leave room for it.

You tried to meet her gaze. You tried to be brave. But the image of that man—the one with the beard and kind eyes who gave you gum at checkpoint stations—flashed in your mind again. The way his scream had been cut off. The way his body hit the ground two feet from you, his blood spraying your boots, his arm still twitching even when the rest of him didn’t move.

You flinched, hard, and a whimper broke past your lips before you could swallow it down.

The woman didn’t say anything. Didn’t yell at you. Didn’t shush you. Just reached forward, slow and steady, and touched your shoulder. Her hand was warm through the fabric of your coat. She didn’t say everything’s going to be okay, because that would’ve been a lie. She just looked at you like you mattered. Like you could do this.

And you wanted to. You wanted to be good. You wanted her to keep looking at you like that.

So you nodded.

Even though your stomach hurt. Even though your legs felt like jelly and your throat burned and your fingers were still twitching like they were trying to find the knife that was already gone.

You nodded.

You didn’t know where your mom was.

But you wanted her more than anything.

“It catches their attention,” she went on, like a teacher repeating a spelling word. “Low whistles. Then high. Makes them lunge. They go right past you. You don’t run until they miss.”

You blinked at her. Nodded slowly. Then looked down at your arms. There was blood on your sleeves. A lot of it.

You sniffled. “Okay… cool, I guess,” you mumbled. Your voice cracked halfway through. “I just… I want my mom.”

She didn’t flinch. Just pressed a hand against your shoulder—steady, warm despite everything. She didn’t tell you your mom was okay. Didn’t lie. That was almost worse.

A shriek echoed somewhere nearby, too close. The woman’s head snapped toward the alley entrance. Then she looked back at you.

“I know, kid,” she said. “But right now I need you to whistle like your life depends on it.”

You nodded again. You didn’t know what else to do.

And when the shadows twisted, and the snarl came, and she grabbed your hand and said, “Now.”—you did it.

Low. Then high. 

And goddamnint, it worked. 

—

Age: 14 1/5

“Eh,” Joel grunted, snapping his fingers in your direction like he was calling a dog—classic—and then holding out his hand, palm-up, expectant. No words, just a raised brow and that quiet, authoritative presence that somehow made you feel like you had to obey even when he wasn’t looking at you. You rolled your eyes hard enough that Ellie snorted, but still, you handed over the knife you and she had found near the creek bank. It had been half-buried in a tangle of roots and mud, the blade rusted to hell and back, but it looked cool.

Joel turned it over in his hands, inspecting it like it was a priceless relic. “It’s junk,” he said. But he didn’t give it back.

Ellie groaned dramatically, stomping through the shallow water as her once-white Converse splashed dark with creekwater. Her jeans were rolled up to her knees, dirt already smeared along her shins. “He steals all the good shit,” she called, glancing over at you. “Next time we find a machete, we bury it until he’s gone.”

“He’s like the tax man,” you muttered, skidding halfway down the muddy slope back to the water, arms outstretched like wings for balance. “Like a dad tax. You find something? Boom. Gone. Right into the Joel Vault.”

Joel didn’t look up from the knife. “I heard that.”

You grinned, twisting around to face him. “Hey, Dad?”

He grunted in reply—his universal signal for I’m listening, but you better be quick about it.

“That’s what a tax is, right? People just... take your stuff ‘cause they’re in charge?”

“Mmhm,” he confirmed without missing a beat, still running a thumb across the edge of the blade like he thought if he stared hard enough, it’d sharpen itself.

“God,” you sighed, water sloshing around your ankles, “sometimes I’m so, so smart I amaze myself.”

Ellie cackled at that, nearly losing her balance as she leaned against a smooth boulder, flicking water toward you with the side of her foot. “I’m gonna get that stitched on a shirt for you. ‘So Smart It Hurts: The Starshine Story.’”

“Hey,” you called back, pretending to look offended. “Genius doesn’t always get appreciated in its own time.”

Joel finally looked up, just long enough to shoot you both a tired but unmistakably amused glare. “You two are lucky I ain’t charging interest.”

You all lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment. The water murmured against the rocks. Dragonflies hovered lazily in the air. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, golden and slow, casting long shadows across the bank. It felt like one of those rare, still pockets of peace—where the world wasn’t trying to kill you, and nobody was bleeding, and laughter was something real and earned.

Joel turned the knife over one last time, then tucked it into his belt. “Could sand the rust off,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Might still hold an edge.”

Ellie groaned again. “Dad tax,” she muttered.

You kicked water in her direction. “You’re just mad I found it first.”

“Keep talkin', Starshine,” she said, squinting at you. “I’m the one with the rock.”

Joel sat down heavily on a fallen log, letting out a long, tired exhale. “God help me, I raised two gremlins.”

“Nah,” you said, collapsing next to him and leaning back into the sunlight with a grin. “You inherited us.”

And for once, he didn’t argue

–

Age: 15-16

By the time you came to, everything hurt.

The sun, which you remembered lazily dipping beneath the horizon, was now rising—early light slicing through gaps in the crumbled warehouse walls around you. The air was cold, sharp in your nose, and the metallic tang of blood sat stubbornly on your tongue. You were propped up against a supply crate, vision blurred, head pounding with each passing second. Every blink stung. Your lip throbbed. Something crusted and dry clung to your temple, and it didn’t take much to realize—head wound. Possibly worse. Probably a concussion.

Voices echoed nearby, warped like underwater shouting. Shapes moved beyond the haze—figures, people. A group. One stood closest. A man, kneeling in front of you, hands moving with practiced care as he dabbed gently at your hairline with a cloth that came away stained.

Your instincts screamed too many people, no weapon, can’t see straight. You tried to shift, fingers twitching in search of your knife, your gun, something—but your belt was empty. You were alone. Unarmed.

Panic began to settle in your chest just as the man’s voice cut through the fog.

“What the fuck? A child appears and your first reaction is to hit her over the head with a shotgun?”

His words weren’t directed at you. They were aimed over his shoulder at the group standing just a few feet back, some watching guiltily, others looking everywhere but at you.

“She spooked me!” someone said, but the excuse was limp.

“Yeah? Try spooking back,” the man growled. “You knock her out cold and then leave her in the dirt?” He turned toward you again, softer now. “How do you feel?” he asked, and though you didn’t answer, he reached forward, taking your hand gently. “Squeeze my hand.”

You blinked at him, disoriented, before giving the weakest squeeze imaginable. His mouth quirked at the corner—almost a smile.

“Good job, kiddo.”

He helped you upright with more strength than grace, supporting most of your weight as your legs immediately buckled. The sudden motion made the world spin, your stomach churn. You blinked hard.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You mumbled it, slurring slightly from the dizziness. He nodded, murmuring something reassuring that you didn’t catch. You weren’t listening.

Your gaze had shifted—drawn past him, past the blurring outlines of people, to a girl a little older than you standing just out of reach. She had her arms crossed, blonde hair braided loosely down her back, and her eyes were locked—not on you, but on the man tending to you. Watching him like she already knew what he was going to say. Probably his daughter. She hadn’t hit you.

You blinked again, a flicker of realization striking deep.

Where is your father?

The panic returned with startling force, and your limbs moved without your permission. You jolted, clumsy and breathless, making the man catch you again before you could crumple to the ground.

“Where’s my dad?” you gasped, louder now. “Where’s my dad?!”

Your voice cracked on the last word, desperation bleeding through.

The man eased you back down onto a crate, more firmly this time. “Hey—hey, easy,” he said, crouching to meet your eyes again. “I don’t know where he is, okay? He was with another girl. They rode off yesterday when we heard the commotion. It was chaos—we were defending the west end.”

Your lip trembled. You weren’t hearing what you needed to hear.

“But listen to me,” he continued gently, “we’ll help you. We’re gonna keep looking. Right now, I need you to sit. You’ve got a nasty concussion. And you’re gonna be no good to him if you pass out again.”

Then he turned slightly, calling over his shoulder. “Gale.”

The blonde girl stepped forward immediately, a half-melted baggie of snow in her hands. She knelt beside you without a word, carefully pressing it to your swollen temple. The cold made you wince, but it grounded you a little.

“This is my daughter,” the man said, voice steady, trying to reassure you. “Abigail. And my name is Gary, I’m a doctor, we’re gonna take care of you.”

Abigail didn’t speak. But she met your eyes as she pressed the snow against your head—eyes serious, maybe a little unsure, but not unkind.

You didn’t know who these people were. You didn’t know where your dad was. But for now, there was snow on your skin, a warm hand on your shoulder, and the promise—no matter how thin—that someone was looking.

-

Jerry had started you off slow—basic wound cleaning, gauze wraps, when and how to apply pressure—but it hadn’t taken him long to realize you knew more than most small-settlement medics. You’d learned out of necessity, not interest, your hands steady not because you were fearless but because you’d had to be. So after a few half-hearted bandage tutorials and some mild astonishment at your stitchwork, he started pushing you further.

By week two at the Firefly hospital, you weren’t just assisting anymore—you were performing. Jerry began teaching you field trauma protocols, makeshift procedures that walked the razor’s edge between survival and surgery. You learned how to stabilize a punctured lung, how to guide your fingers by feel when you couldn’t see the wound, how to cut open someone’s chest when there was no other option and no time for precision.

You weren’t licensed. You weren’t even technically old enough to drive. But by then, you were a fully trained field medic, and when the call came down, and the Fireflies got the all-clear to send out patrol squads, you were named their medic. There were grumbles, of course—she’s fifteen, what if she freezes, what if she panics—but they faded the moment they saw you in action. You didn’t flinch at the sight of gore. You didn’t blink when bullets tore through flesh. You didn’t hesitate. You worked fast, precise, and cold. That kind of calm made people trust you. It made them listen.

It also made them forget your name.

Most of them didn’t know it to begin with. But they did know your call sign: Sparrow.

It had started with Jerry.

He called Abby Nightingale—a bit of a joke, a little too poetic for someone who rolled her eyes every time he said it, but he meant it. She was a shooter with bite, loud when she needed to be and silent when it mattered. So when you joined them, younger and quieter, sharp-eyed and constantly within arm’s reach of his elbow, he dubbed you Sparrow. It wasn’t a joke. It was gentler, quieter. Something smaller, but quick. Observant. Careful. Always in motion, always listening.

At first, you hadn’t cared. Names were noise. Something other people used to get your attention. But it stuck. People started using it—at first just his team, then the others. Someone tacked Anderson’s onto the front like a title, a warning, a quiet way of saying she’s his, don’t mess with her. Eventually, the possessive dropped, but the identity didn’t. You were Sparrow now. And no one asked otherwise.

And the thing was… you liked it.

You liked that it wasn’t your real name. That it hadn’t come from before. It reminded you of Starshine—your father’s voice in the dark, that soft way he used to say it when he thought you were asleep. Something given, not demanded. Something earned, not assigned. Starshine was love. Sparrow was survival. But somehow, they both felt like they belonged to you.

More than that, it gave you something to hide behind.

In a world where people disappeared every day—some to death, some to fear, and some to their own grief—it felt like armor. A layer between your heart and the hands that would ask too much of it. You didn’t have to be the kid with a dead mom and a father who rode off and didn’t come back. You didn’t have to explain the bags under your eyes or why you never asked for help. You didn’t have to carry everything on your name.

You could just be Sparrow.

The girl with steady hands and a scalpel tucked in her boot. The one who could reset a dislocated shoulder in thirty seconds flat. The one who didn’t flinch at the sight of intestines or a severed limb. The one who stayed calm when the radio snapped to life with panicked voices and the screaming hadn’t even reached the door yet.

Sparrow didn’t cry in the laundry room at night. Sparrow didn’t wonder if she’d ever hear her dad’s voice again. Sparrow didn’t miss what the world had taken from her. You did. But not her.

And so you kept her close. Let them believe that was who you were. Let the world call for Sparrow—because that was someone who could always answer. Someone who didn’t break.

And honestly?

You needed her as much as everyone else did.

…

“Abigail,” you laughed as she tugged on your wrist, dragging you up the cracked, vine-wrapped stairwell that led to the rooftop deck of the overgrown hospital. Her excitement buzzed off her in waves, her fingers warm even in the cool night air, and you didn’t ask questions—just followed. You never really needed a reason when it came to her.

But your smile faltered the second you stepped out onto the rooftop.

It wasn’t anything grand. It wasn’t perfect. But it was... intentional. A blanket—worn, frayed at the corners, but still soft-looking—was spread in the center of the open space, held down by smooth river rocks. A few battery-powered lanterns flickered around its edges, their light soft and hazy against the encroaching dark. Someone had even cleared the worst of the debris—shoved rusted medical carts to the side, brushed away loose gravel and broken glass.

It wasn’t clean, not really. But it was cared for.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, frozen at the threshold. The sky above you stretched wide and endless, deep blue bleeding into the black of night, and there, just cresting over the tops of the trees, was the full moon—low, massive, and tinged with the faintest blush of soft pink.

Abigail plopped down onto the blanket with a little oof, grinning up at you like she was waiting for a reaction.

“Yeah,” she said, stretching the word out, “I read that the moon goes through these like... color things? Phases? Something to do with dust and the way it reflects light or whatever. Anyway, tonight it’s a pink moon. And since your favorite color is pink...”

She gestured toward the sky dramatically, her smile widening. “Ta-da.”

You blinked, heart climbing somewhere uncomfortably high in your throat. She looked so pleased with herself. And you were still standing there like an idiot.

She glanced sideways, then dropped her voice into a faux whisper. “Also, don’t tell my dad. This is technically his blanket.”

That broke you from your daze. You let out a soft laugh, finally crossing the rooftop toward her.

“Trust me,” you murmured, sinking down beside her, “I won’t speak a word of it.”

Abigail handed you a warm bottle of water from her bag, as if she’d planned every second of this—from the blanket placement to the lanterns that buzzed faintly beside you. You took the bottle without hesitation, brushing your shoulder against hers in quiet thanks.

She bumped back into you gently, the gesture easy and familiar. “Not bad for a rooftop, huh?”

You snorted. “You made a rooftop feel like a date in a real world. That’s impressive.”

“Oh,” she said, faux-innocent. “So this is a date?”

Your eyes flicked toward her, amused. “You dragged me up here under the moonlight, brought me water, and set the vibe with the stars. If this isn’t a date, I’m gonna be very confused later.”

Abigail laughed, her head tipping back as the sound bounced lightly across the rooftop. “Okay, okay, fine. It’s a date,” she said with a grin. “Guess that means I gotta be charming now.”

“You’re already charming,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Her gaze flicked toward you at that, lingering a little longer than before, the corner of her mouth twitching with something softer. “You’re sweet.”

You shrugged and looked back toward the moon, trying to hide how warm your cheeks felt. “You said it’s called a pink moon?”

“Yeah,” she said, pulling one knee up to her chest. “Something about the atmosphere, or pollen, or... science-y stuff I don’t remember. I just saw a picture once, and it was pretty. I guess it stuck with me.”

You looked over at her again, taking in the way the light painted her skin in muted silver and rose, the way her braid had started to fray in soft wisps around her face. You’d seen her covered in grime, blood, sweat—seen her gut infected without flinching and laugh like a kid in the same hour—but right now, sitting on a hospital rooftop with a bag of emergency rations and someone else’s blanket, she looked like she belonged in another world.

A softer one.

“I think it’s beautiful,” you said. “Not just the moon. The whole thing.”

Abigail glanced over, and for a second, she didn’t speak.

Then, her voice quieter, “Yeah… me too.”

You both went silent again, the sounds of the world at rest humming faintly around you. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The breeze picked up slightly, brushing past the vines that clung to the rooftop edge.

“I know it’s dumb,” Abigail murmured after a while. “Doing stuff like this. It’s not like the world cares about pink moons or perfect little nights.”

You turned toward her, leaning your head lightly on her shoulder. “No,” you said softly, “but I do.”

She didn’t answer right away. But she rested her head against yours in return.

And the world, for a little while, didn’t feel like it was ending.

Age: 19

“If you hear anything, you come right back!” Kat barked from her horse, her voice sharp enough to carry over the wind that whispered through the abandoned town. She sat high in the saddle, eyes narrowed beneath her hood as she watched the three of you climb up the back of the broken-down truck like you'd done it a hundred times before.

And to be fair—you had.

You landed with a soft thud on the roof, your boots catching against the ridged metal as the truck groaned beneath the shift of weight. It had rusted to hell and back, but it held. For now.

A quiet chuckle slipped out of you as you crouched beside Ellie, knees bent just beneath the shattered remains of the window. Glass glittered like old stars across the sill, but the window itself was fogged—dirt, dust, dried blood caked in long-forgotten streaks, a smear of violence that hadn’t faded with time. It was like the building had been trying to forget what happened inside, but the rot lingered. Always did.

Even if your eyesight had been perfect—which it wasn’t—you wouldn’t have been able to see much. The inside was black, that kind of thick, pressing dark that felt like it breathed. Still, you leaned in close, just enough to hear, to feel the chill bleeding out from the cracked glass.

On your other side, Dina climbed up quietly, one hand on the rim of the window, the other steadying herself on your shoulder as she adjusted into position. You gave her a small nod, your hand sliding down to draw the knife from your boot. The handle felt familiar in your palm—well-worn, comfortable. Your other hand braced against the cold metal of the roof, muscles tense, ready.

“Three on one,” Ellie whispered, voice almost chipper in a way that only she could manage while staring into literal death. It wasn’t false confidence—it was just Ellie. The smirk on her face didn’t match the way her eyes narrowed, scanning the dark like she could see something forming inside it.

You were just about to let her slip through the window when the scream came.

Ragged. Guttural. Not quite human.

You flinched, hand shooting out on instinct to stop her. She froze mid-motion, her eyes snapping to yours in a flash of alertness, expression already hardening. You weren’t the only one who’d heard it. Dina, too, had gone still, one hand raising slowly—three fingers.

You swallowed, glancing over.

Three infected. Maybe more.

The screams came again, overlapping slightly. Close enough in tone to sound like echoes—but not quite. They had the variance of human voices: one higher, one raspier, one more guttural like it had festered deeper. Like people once had names before their throats were filled with spores.

Ellie blinked at Dina’s signal, her brow furrowing before she groaned softly. “Okay, so one-on-one then. Starry’s taken four before, and I can handle myself. We’re good. We’ve done worse.”

You and Dina shared a look over her head.

It wasn’t that she was wrong. It wasn’t that the odds were impossible. It was that something about the air felt different—heavier. The kind of weight that doesn’t come from numbers but intention. These weren’t mindless runners caught in a supply closet. These were the waiting kind. The kind that listened.

Still… there was that itch in your bones. The hum under your skin that came from too many hours with a needle and thread in your hands instead of a trigger or a blade. The wrongness of wanting a fight clashed with the comfort it brought.

Ellie smirked, sensing your hesitation. She leaned in a little closer. “I mean, we don’t have to go in. We could always wait for the boys to grow some balls.”

You blinked. Frowned. “Low blow, Ells.”

“I call it motivation.”

You didn’t respond with words—just slung the shotgun off your back, the weight of it grounding. You stepped forward to the window, peeking through again. This time you focused.

The room beyond was gutted. Mold crawled up the corners of the walls like slow-moving shadows. Rust had eaten through the metal storage shelves, and collapsed ceiling tiles littered the floor in dusty heaps. Vines had broken in through the far window once, but even they had died here, curling in on themselves like they’d realized too late what kind of graveyard they’d entered.

No movement. Not yet.

But you could feel it.

They were in there. Waiting. Listening.

You sucked in a quiet breath, shoulders tight. Every muscle in your body knew better than to relax yet. Each step you took was deliberate, heel to toe, carefully avoiding the scattered glass and loose tiles littering the corridor floor. The beam from Dina’s flashlight cut across the decaying corpse splayed in the middle of the hall—torso torn open, chest cavity bloated with fungal growth that had long since stopped spreading but hadn’t stopped smelling.

You crouched beside it for half a second, lips pursed in a frown. The body was old. Dried blood. Black around the edges. But not too old. Maybe a few days. You gave a sharp nod, signaling for the others to hold formation as you rose again, grip tightening around your knife. Every crackle of movement—every groan of the walls—pulled your attention like a hook under the skin.

Ellie and Dina had already taken up positions on either side of the intersecting hall—silent, focused. Ellie's back flattened against the wall, her pistol at the ready, while Dina shifted just enough to peer around her corner, steadying the light in her hand.

You opted for something different.

Instead of sticking to the side, you walked the center of the hallway, careful and upright—bait without the panic. The sound of clicking filtered through the thick dark, echoing like bone snapped too cleanly. Familiar. But faint.

It wasn’t close enough to be Ellie’s side. Had to be Dina’s.

Then—another sound.

Heavier. Slower. The drag of something big and uneven. The rasp of breath that wasn’t quite formed in lungs anymore. Two, maybe three. Definitely Dina’s side.

You turned your head slowly, just enough to peer around the corner—and there they were.

Two clickers, hunched and pulsing with breath, their fungal plates splitting the shape of what used to be human faces. One was smaller, maybe newly turned. The other was massive, its movements heavier, more deliberate. A bad fight waiting to happen.

And some part of you—exhausted, stubborn, and so damn tired of things lurking in corners of ruined places—scoffed.

That’s it? That’s what the world had waiting for you this time?

You weren’t sure if the feeling in your chest was frustration or boredom, but either way it made your lip curl into something like a smirk.

With a glance back over your shoulder, you caught Ellie’s eye.

She was already watching you. Had been the whole time.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

She gave you the look. That raised-eyebrow, half-irritated, half-impressed expression she saved for the times you were about to do something incredibly risky but undeniably effective.

You nodded once, slowly. Then twice

“No. Get back, no.”

Ellie mouthed it at you from across the hall, her eyes wide, her head shaking so violently it was a miracle it didn’t fall right off her shoulders. Her expression screamed panic—not the we’re gonna die kind, but the you’re about to do something catastrophically stupid and I’m going to be blamed for it kind. Which, honestly, was funnier.

You fought the grin twitching at the edge of your mouth, trying not to let it take over. But your hand was already tightening around the handle of your knife, and you were so ready.

You leaned a little toward her, smirk spreading. “I’m gonna do it,” you mouthed, just barely above a whisper.

Ellie’s whole body tensed like she was physically holding herself back from lunging across the room to slap sense into you. Her hands flailed in panicked mime—No! NO!!—before she pointed to herself and made an exaggerated throat-slashing motion. “Joel will kill me! Me!!”

The silent dramatics were almost enough to make you laugh out loud. But instead, you gave her a wink.

Behind her, Dina was watching the whole thing with the most resigned expression known to mankind. Behind her, Dina was watching the whole thing unfold with the most resigned expression known to mankind—arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the picture of a woman who’d accepted that whatever happened next was probably her fault by association. But then, after a long pause… she nodded. A grin slowly pulled at her lips as she gave you a very unhelpful thumbs-up, then mimed a stabbing motion with her knife, adding a second nod for good measure.

Your face lit up, smug as hell, and you gestured toward Dina with both hands, shooting Ellie the most obnoxious “See? She supports me.” expression you could manage.

Ellie looked personally betrayed.

You didn’t give her time to argue—just winked, turned your attention back to the connecting hall, and leaned into the edge of the doorway. Your fingers flexed on the knife, that familiar tremor rippling through your hand—not weakness, just nerves, just enough to make you feel the weight of it.

One breath in.

One breath out.

You whistled—low. Steady.

The reaction was instant.

Bodies jerked unnaturally in the darkness, heads twitching with that horrible, snapping sound that meant they’d heard something but didn’t know what. The noise grew—clicks turning to distorted shrieks, echoing through the walls, louder, closer. Their feet scraped across the floor in that unsteady shuffle, limbs twitching as they turned toward your sound.

Then you raised the pitch. Sharper. Higher. Shrill.

Like a wire pulled taut, both clickers snapped—lunging toward the sound like bullets. One charged into the wall beside you, shoulder-first with a wet crunch that echoed up the corridor. The second one—the larger one—moved toward you with a slower, heavier momentum, less erratic, more calculated.

Your pulse surged. You backed up one step, then two, keeping the beast in front of you.

A wild laugh slipped past your lips—just a breath, just enough to release the pressure building in your chest—and then you stomped your foot down, hard, onto the rotting wood. A crack echoed beneath your boot.

The clicker turned toward the sound, just as you pivoted hard left.

It was all you needed.

Your knife swung in a clean, practiced arc—sinking deep into the side of its neck. You grunted, twisting your body with the motion, expecting the creature to crumple.

It didn’t.

With a shuddering screech, it staggered, but it didn’t fall. You had only seconds to process that before it lunged, wild and still alive, forcing you to roll with it. You hit the ground hard, elbow barking against the floor, but you didn’t let go.

Its claws scraped at your back—sharp, burning trails tearing down through your jacket, and fuck, that hurt.

You snarled, grabbing the side of its fungal-plated head with both hands. With a violent jerk, you twisted, dragging the infected down with you as you slammed your blade into it again and again in a messy blur of panic and fury and something that felt terrifyingly close to instinct.

Blood spattered across your face, warm and wet and awful.

And then—stillness.

Heavy, final.

You panted against the quiet, your ears ringing from the noise, heart thrumming in your throat.

Across the room, Ellie was on her back, grunting as she shoved the second clicker’s now-limp body off of her. She sat up quickly, scanning for you, her chest rising and falling in time with your own. Her face was scratched, smeared with blood—hers or theirs, you couldn’t tell.

You stared at each other for a long beat, the silence loud with what-ifs and almosts.

And then you tried to stand.

Your legs trembled as you pushed yourself upright, fingers fumbling at the zipper of your jacket where the blood had already started to dry, sticking fabric to skin. Your breath hitched and your voice came out too fast, too broken.

“I-I- need you to che—”

“Okay, okay,” Ellie said instantly, stumbling to her feet with a grunt, already moving toward you. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

She met you halfway, one hand on your waist, the other already tugging at your jacket, checking for damage. You let her. Couldn’t not.

Blood streaked down her arm, staining the fabric of her shirt like armor—deep, smeared lines across her sleeves and spattered across her collarbone like some warpaint the world hadn’t meant to give her. Her chest still rose and fell too fast. Her hands, covered in drying blood, shook as they ghosted over your sides, your face, your jacket. She scanned every inch of you like she didn’t believe what she was seeing, like she needed to feel your pulse to prove you were real.

“You’re okay,” she said again, her voice dropping lower, almost like she was talking to herself now. “No scratches, no scratches—Starshine, hey—Starshine, look at me.”

Her hands cupped your face, trembling at the edges, and her voice went soft enough to break something inside you. “Babe… you’re okay.” One hand slid up to gently pat your shoulder—almost grounding herself more than you. “Look at you,” she breathed, a half-laugh stuttering out of her. “Fuck yeah.”

Dina's boots echoed faintly as she approached, the swing of her steps still casual despite the tension that hadn’t quite left the air. Her grin was crooked, her voice teasing but not unkind. “Did you two get bit? Do I have to shoot you in the face? ‘Cause that’d really kill the mood.”

You let out a dry laugh, your head tipping back slightly in relief. “No, no bites. Just trauma. And my jacket’s a goner.”

You turned, pulling the back of your jacket forward enough to show the shredded leather, the long claw marks cutting through it like ribbons. A small, sympathetic noise slipped from Dina’s lips, followed by a whispered “damn.”

She moved toward the clicker’s bodies, crouching to inspect the mess you’d made with practiced ease. The blood hadn’t even dried yet. And Ellie… Ellie was already wandering off, of course, her limp unmistakable, though she carried it like pride. She’d die before admitting to it, but you knew her gait well enough to see the wince she didn’t let show.

“Oh my god,” Ellie called out, her voice echoing through the busted hallway like nothing had happened, like none of you had almost died five minutes ago. “Before we leave you guys have to check out the Employee—”

CRRRACK.

The sound split the air like lightning.

You didn’t even have time to turn fully before it happened.

Ellie’s foot hit the soft patch of floor—rotted through, probably hollow beneath—and the wood gave beneath her with a sickening groan. A second later, she was gone.

Gone.

You and Dina both froze.

There wasn’t even time to scream.

Just the deafening crash of splintering beams and her body disappearing into the darkness below.

“Ellie??”

Your voice ripped from your throat, hoarse and wild, too loud for the silence that followed the fall. You were already on your knees, crawling across splintered boards with no care for what they might give way to next. Wood cracked beneath your weight, dust burst up around your hands, and your palms burned as they scraped against the jagged edge of the hole. You didn’t feel it. Not really.

Your heart was a war drum—too fast, too loud—and your eyes scanned the space below in blind panic, lungs barely working around the taste of old insulation and mold.

Below you, half-buried in dust and metal, lay Ellie.

She was tangled in a heap of storage shelving that must’ve once belonged to the market floor beneath. Torn insulation clung to her like frost, wires caught in her hair, and one of her legs was awkwardly bent under her as she gasped for air, a sharp rattle in her chest.

“Ellie!” Dina shouted from beside you, nearly on top of you now, flashlight beam cutting through the haze and landing on her figure. The beam danced over her arms, her face—thank God—eyes blinking up at the light.

“Are you okay?!”

There was a pause—long enough that fear curled up into your ribs again.

Then Ellie coughed, hacking violently into her arm, dust billowing out of her lungs in clouds. She winced as she moved a piece of metal from her side and twisted just enough to sit upright. She looked like hell.

“I’m good,” she croaked out.

The words crashed into you like a wave. You nearly fell back from the force of the relief. Dina let out a breath next to you—one of those sharp exhales that sounded like it was ripped from her spine. You looked at her, and she looked at you, both eyes wide, both silently confirming the same thing: She’s alive.

Ellie shifted, testing her limbs, her face tightening as she moved but not breaking. “Nothing’s broken… I don’t think.”

You snapped back down into the present.

“And—? Don’t move!” Your voice cracked as you leaned further over the edge. “God, Ellie, stay down. You could’ve messed up your spine, or your—anything! What the fuck, why didn’t you stop when I—”

“I said I’m fine,” she cut in, but the grunt that followed said otherwise. She tried to adjust again, only to hiss between her teeth when her elbow knocked into the edge of the bent shelving.

Dina moved beside you, her eyes darting around the perimeter of the room below. “Are you alone down there?” she called down, her voice steadier than yours, but still tight around the edges.

Ellie didn’t answer right away. You could see her processing—head tilted slightly, breath held like she was trying to feel the air.

Then she grunted. “Don’t hear anything. ”

You didn’t like that answer. Not in this building. Not with the way the walls creaked and groaned like they remembered too much.

Dina stood, already moving back down the hall. “I’m gonna find stairs or a ladder. Something stable.”

“I’m going down,” you said immediately, standing up like your body hadn’t just been through hell.

“No. You, miss medic lady, are coming with me.” Dina shot you a look over her shoulder. “If you fall too, I’m would just leave you both, so c’mon.”

But you were already scanning the wall, finding what looked like a series of old support beams and a shelf that half-jutted out from the wall beneath the break. Climbable. A rightfully terrible idea, so you grumbled as you pushed yourself to your knees, looking at Dina and nodding in agreement that you would go with her.

You turned back to Ellie, who had now flopped onto her back like she was accepting death. “You stay right there. Don’t move until I get to you.”

Ellie raised a shaky hand in a loose thumbs-up. “Ten-four, boss lady.”

“Not the time for jokes, Williams.”

There was always something disgustingly interesting about a person who grew up within the walls of safety—those rare few who had the privilege of surviving the end of the world without ever truly tasting it. People who heard stories about the outbreak, about clickers and raiders and what it felt like to have to kill something that used to look human—but only ever secondhand. They saw the world for what it was, yes, but had yet to live it. Not the way others had. Not the way those who clawed their way through twenty years of blood, mud, and ash had.

These people grew up inside places like Jackson or maybe even a QZ if they were lucky, where things like clean water and structure still existed. They learned about the cordyceps fungus from textbooks instead of watching it tear through a loved one. They trained with rifles on firing ranges, not with trembling hands in dark hallways echoing with guttural screeches. Often, in their need to prove themselves worthy of the stories they were told, they tried to be brave. They sought out danger like it was some kind of badge. They ventured beyond the gates on poorly planned “missions,” romanticized patrols, searching for that adrenaline spike that might make them feel real.

They went into the woods at night without permission, thinking a flashlight and a knife made them invincible. They snuck onto supply routes. They begged to be taken on patrols, not realizing that there was nothing noble about watching someone bleed out in the snow because you hesitated for half a second.

Within that same vein, it would be easy to assume those people were prideful, arrogant, full of themselves—and most of the time, they were. They were annoying, sure. Loud in their confidence and blind in their inexperience. But beneath all that? Beneath the posturing and the bravado?

There was fear.

A quiet kind of fear. The fear of being seen as weak in a world that doesn’t wait for anyone to grow into their strength. A fear that they were somehow less than those who had endured the worst of it. So they ran headfirst into danger hoping that maybe—just maybe—one act of recklessness would make them equal to the legends they were raised under.

And in places like Jackson, where the people who had truly survived—the ones with scars and haunted eyes—were finally starting to breathe again, it was hard not to look at these kids with a mixture of pity and resentment. Because it wasn’t their fault, they hadn’t suffered. But it sure didn’t mean they understood what it meant to survive.

With all of that being said, you had found yourself rather fond of the woman that Ellie very pointedly insisted wasn’t her girlfriend—nor her friend, depending on the day and who was asking. Which, of course, only made it more obvious that she was both.

Dina had a way about her. A quiet sharpness masked behind a warm grin, like she could read the room and everyone in it before a single word was spoken. And unlike most of the younger folks who came into the clinic—those raised within Jackson’s fortified walls who wore their minor injuries like medals—Dina didn’t come in with performative stories or dramatic flair. No tales of heroic mishaps or exaggerated chaos. She wasn’t like the others, the ones who limped in with a burn on their hand and launched into a saga about a rogue pot of boiling water with a personal vendetta, half-inspired by a scene out of Final Destination. You never said it out loud, but that was usually how you spotted them—the ones who hadn't seen the worst of it, who hadn't lived outside the wire, hadn’t slept under trees while praying the wind wouldn’t carry sound to the infected.

Because when you or your father got hurt—burnt wrist, sprained ankle, bruised ribs—it came with a simple explanation. No fluff. No theatrics. Just, "burnt it on the stove," or "twisted it getting off the horse." The kind of injury you don’t have the energy to dress up because you’ve lived through worse. Because the people who had lived through real shit didn’t need to make survival poetic. They were just grateful they were still breathing.

But Dina… Dina never needed to embellish. She didn’t posture or pretend. When she came into the clinic with a busted knuckle, she just said, “Horse spooked. Slammed my hand into the railing.” No self-deprecating jokes, no self-pity either—just the facts. A wince, maybe a quip if the pain meds kicked in fast enough, and then a quiet thank you as she walked out, hand bandaged and chin high.

You started to notice her more after that. The way she carried herself with this grounded sort of ease, like someone who had seen enough to know when to stay soft and when to be steel. She spoke when it mattered, held back when it didn’t. And you couldn’t help but appreciate that kind of clarity in a world that had turned most people into either blustering noise or total silence.

Perhaps thats why when you were given the option that morning by your aunt if you wanted someone a bit more experienced on the patrol with you; you had declined. Because for so many people that had yet to see the gore of this, you had seen enough to make a judgment. 

“Are you sure? Tommy’s lookin’ for an  excuse to go out that way—”

“Uncle Tommy just wants to babysit me and Ellie,” you shoot back without hesitation, tugging the satchel strap tight across your chest with a practiced yank. You squint through the sharp reflection of sunlight bouncing off the snow, eyes adjusting as you meet Maria’s gaze. “He’s always welcome to come, you of all people know that. So why are we having this conversation again?”

Maria held your gaze with that familiar, unreadable expression—part concern, part calculation. You knew it well. She wasn’t just thinking like your aunt; she was thinking like a leader. But it wasn’t until your voice faltered at the end that she finally responded, her tone softer than you expected.

“I just want you girls safe, is all,” she said, the words weighed down by something deeper. “And… if I’m being honest, it’d give me time to talk your dad into finally sitting down for dinner tonight.”

You blink. “Before the prom?”

Maria rolled her eyes, lips curling. “It’s not a prom. It’s a community-building potluck to welcome the newcomers and introduce them to leadership. Such as…”

“No.” You groaned, cutting her off, and pointed a gloved finger at her accusingly. “No. Auntie. I am a glorified nurse. A glorified nurse with a growing pile of suture requests and a sprained wrist from trying to yank a molar last week. I am not—and will never be—board material.”

“You took out an appendix last week,” she countered flatly. “A whole ass appendix. Something you had never done before. You had Joel—Joel—reading Grey’s Anatomy out loud like it was a damn bedtime story. Don’t tell me you’re ‘just a nurse.’”

You winced. Okay, that was a fair point.

“I stitched it crooked,” you muttered.

Maria smiled faintly. “But you saved her life. You did that. And you’ve done that more than once now. You're the closest thing Jackson has to a doctor, and that’s why I want you on the board.”

You crossed your arms tightly, bracing against more than just the cold. “People already think the Millers run Jackson. You’ve heard the whispers. Hell, I’ve heard them. Adding me to the board wouldn’t fix that.”

Maria tilted her head, her tone shifting into something more deliberate. “People always have something to say. Doesn’t mean they’re right. You earned your place—just like your dad, just like Tommy, just like I did. That’s what Jackson needs. Not politics. People who give a damn.”

You let the silence stretch between you for a beat, snow crunching faintly underfoot as you shifted your weight. She wasn’t wrong—but that didn’t mean you were ready to believe it.

“I’ll think about it,” you murmured.

Maria nodded, clearly satisfied with that tiny concession. “Good.”

She turned as if to head back toward the community hall, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder with a smirk. “Dinner tonight. And talk Ellie into coming.”

You raised a brow. “Is that smart?”

Maria grinned, her breath a puff of white against the air. “Probably not. Which is exactly why I want to see it happen.”

You shook your head, laughing softly to yourself. “You're the worst.”

“Yeah, well,” she called as she walked off, “you are my niece.”

You looked out toward the stables, where Ellie was no doubt already pretending she wasn’t excited about the patrol. And with Maria’s words still hanging in the air, the thought of dinner—of sitting at the table, all of you, pretending just for a little while that things were whole. 

With a small grumble, you started your walk toward the stables, boots crunching against the half-frozen dirt path. The streets were already alive with morning bustle—kids chasing each other toward the parlor-turned-schoolhouse, their laughter echoing off the worn wooden buildings like something out of a memory too good to be real. Adults milled about with baskets and toolkits in hand, trading greetings, making deals, hurrying toward the next chore on their endless lists. And despite the weight in your chest—the nerves, the responsibility, the heaviness of the patrol ahead—you didn’t doubt, not really, that for all its cracks and ghosts, Jackson was the best the world had to offer now.

You shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets, shotgun slung snug across your chest, the leather strap worn and creased where your fingers had nervously gripped it too many times before. You cut through the morning crowd with practiced ease, dodging a cart full of firewood, sidestepping a dog sprinting after a group of laughing kids, nodding at a few familiar faces who offered tired but warm hellos.

The smell of scrambled eggs and something that could almost pass for coffee drifted from the diner, the scent wrapping around you like a blanket you hadn’t asked for. It reminded you of quieter mornings—ones that didn’t involve prepping for a supply run through the cold, praying that maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t find any clickers this time.

A little girl waved at you from her place on a porch step, swinging her legs as she munched on a biscuit. You gave her a tired smile, lifting a hand in return before letting it fall back to your side. You passed the community board next, where someone had tacked up a hand-drawn flyer: “TONIGHT! Community Potluck – Newcomers Welcome! Bring Food or Bring Stories.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately and muttered under your breath, “Not a prom, my ass.”

Finally, the stables came into view, horses lined up and ready, steam curling from their nostrils as stablehands bustled around with brushes and saddles. 

“So, you’re gonna be on the board?”

You practically stumble in the opposite direction of the voice, your boots slipping slightly in the packed-down snow as you twist on instinct, one hand flying to your chest.

“Jesus—”

And there she is. Dina, bundled in layers with a bag slung over her shoulder and a heavy set of coats draped across one arm. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and the effort of hauling gear, but the grin she’s wearing is nothing short of delighted. You barely have time to catch your breath before she bursts into laughter.

“Oh shit,” she says between chuckles, “sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me.”

You shake your head, trying to keep your heart from punching through your ribcage. “No, no—God, you’re fine. I just wasn’t expecting a ninja with great comedic timing.”

She shoots you a look. “It’s part of my charm. Stealth and sarcasm.”

You roll your eyes, brushing snow from your coat as your breathing steadies. “You got everything ready?”

“Yup,” Dina says, holding up the pack with a satisfied shrug. “Rations, maps, spare meds, and Ellie’s got the ammo squared away. Horses are almost done getting saddled. Just waiting on you, board member.”

You groan, actually groan, and throw your head back dramatically. “No. Nope. Don’t start. That’s not happening.”

Dina raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “C’mon. Maria brought it up again, huh?”

“More like ambushed me with it,” you mutter, rubbing the back of your neck. “It’s just… it’s silly. I’m not board material. I’m barely holding the clinic together with duct tape and hope.”

“You took out an appendix, right after you brought someone back to life,” she says, leveling you with a look. “In the dark. With a man who probably calls a ribcage a ‘chest bone’ reading from a dog-eared anatomy book.”

“Okay, fair, but—”

“Nope,” Dina cuts in. “Not even gonna let you finish that. You’ve done more for this town in the last year than most people do in a lifetime. And you’re still out here trying to keep people safe, still willing to go on supply runs in the freezing cold with me and chaos incarnate.”

You blink at her. “You mean Ellie?”

“Oh yeah. You know she tried to pack a machete she named?”

“She what?”

“Don’t ask,” Dina says, deadpan. “I’m not even sure she was kidding.”

The two of you share a laugh, the kind that’s too short but still warm in the chest. Then, more quietly, Dina adds, “Listen… if you do end up on the board? That wouldn’t be a bad thing. People respect you. Even if you don’t see it, they do.”

You glance away, the weight of that sitting a little too heavy. “Yeah… maybe. Still feels weird though. Like, if I say yes, suddenly I’m part of this… thing. And people already say the Millers run Jackson. I don’t want to be another reason they’re right.”

Dina tilts her head, her expression softening. “There’s a difference between earning a place and having one handed to you. You didn’t inherit anything. You fought for it. Don’t forget that.”

You meet her eyes for a long beat. There’s something steady in her gaze, grounding.

“…Why are you always like, emotionally supportive right before we do something potentially life-threatening?” you ask, teasing just to keep from tearing up.

She smirks. “Balance. Keeps the universe in check.”

“Great. Well the universe owes me a nap and some pancakes.”

Dina laughs again, “Survive the patrol, and I’ll make you pancakes myself.”

“Deal,” you say, grinning despite yourself. “But I want chocolate chips.”

“Oh god, I don’t think I’ve even had one of those since I was like…three??”

—

Being someone who had grown up within the exposed reality of the infected, you didn’t flinch much anymore—not at off-handed noises, not at rustling brush, not even at the occasional distant scream that drifted in on the wind like an old ghost. Your instincts, honed by necessity rather than choice, no longer cried out in panic at every cracked branch. You could tell the difference between a twig snapping under the careless stumble of a stalker versus the light hop of a rabbit. The former had weight, stagger, a hesitation like it was remembering what it used to be. The latter was innocent, fast, gone before the echo even faded.

In that same vein, you could hear an infected nearly a mile away—sometimes more, depending on the terrain. You knew the cadence of their breaths, the guttural clicking, the warped gurgle of something that had lost the right to be called human. You knew the smell too—not just of rot, but of fresh rot, the kind that lingered near collapsed safe houses or hidden dens. You could differentiate that from the scent of a months-old corpse baking in the sun. You knew, intimately, how decomposition worked in the open. You knew because your earliest memories were built beside it.

You could still recall the days when the safest place for your parent to leave you wasn’t behind walls or inside a guarded post, but pressed close at their side beneath a mound of reeking cloth and discarded bones—anything to mask your scent, to make you less noticeable to the monsters that wandered the dark. You’d been taught to stay still. To be silent. Breathe through your mouth. You learned early that infected weren’t the only thing to fear—sometimes, it was the sound of a voice calling too sweetly from the woods, or the flicker of a lantern far off the trail that promised safety and delivered anything but.

So now, as the patrol moved through a frozen glade north of Jackson, your group jerked to a halt at every snapped branch or rustle in the brush. The horses snorted and stamped their hooves nervously, sensing what most of the riders couldn’t name. But you didn’t pause—not really. Your hand may have flexed around your shotgun strap, but your steps stayed sure. You knew the land. You knew the signs. This wasn’t it.

And, unsurprisingly, Ellie didn’t pause either.

She rode just behind you, rifle slung casually across her back, hands loose on the reins. You didn’t even need to look over your shoulder to know she was still there—she moved like someone who had survived on instinct alone, someone whose silence wasn’t cautious, but confident.

When the others hissed whispers—“Did you hear that?” and “Should we circle back?”—you and Ellie exchanged nothing more than a glance. Not defiance. Not recklessness. Just understanding.

You pressed on. 

Because between the both of you, you’d seen enough of the world to know: real danger didn’t announce itself. Real danger wasn’t a twig. It was the moment after—the quiet. The sudden absence of birds. The feeling in your gut that something wrong was breathing just out of view.

After a while, the snow-thick trees gave way to an old, cracked main road, barely visible under the powdery frost. The world stretched wider here, open sky above and fields of brittle grass pushing through the edges of the pavement. It should’ve felt safer—visibility was better, and the risk of ambush was lower—but instead, it just made you feel more exposed. Every echo seemed to bounce off the silence like a warning.

You rode a little further front now, giving Ellie and Dina the space they didn’t ask for but clearly needed. They’d been trailing just behind, low voices carrying in and out like the rhythm of a tide, never quite reaching you. It was that soft, familiar kind of tension between people who care too much and say too little. And you, being smart enough to know when someone needed breathing room, had quietly eased your horse back to ride with the others—Dillon, Freddy, and, unfortunately, Kat.

You knew them. They were all decent enough.

Well. Mostly decent.

Freddy was quiet but dependable, always checking the maps, always making sure the ammo was split evenly. Dillon had the kind of nervous energy that meant he talked too much but worked even harder. And then there was Kat. Who, on paper, was a good soldier. Level-headed. Sharpshooter. But she’d also broken up with Ellie last spring, and while you never got the full story, you knew enough to form your very strong, very biased opinion.

You’d have killed her on principle if Jackson laws and general decency didn’t stop you. Not because of the breakup itself—people fell out of love, sure—but because how she did it? In the middle of patrol, in front of Ellie’s friends, then had the audacity to flirt with someone else two days later at the greenhouse potluck like it hadn’t just emotionally obliterated the girl who barely showed anyone she cared in the first place. That was evil. Downright villain-coded behavior.

So no, you weren’t thrilled to be stuck riding beside her in agonizing silence.

Every step your horse took echoed through your skull like a ticking clock. The wind whistled, boots creaked in stirrups, and once or twice Dillon cleared his throat like he was about to say something—only to think better of it.

You tried to distract yourself by counting fence posts, checking for signs of recent movement along the ditches, anything to not go insane from how slow and suffocating the mood had gotten. You even started planning dinner in your head. Would it be worth sneaking into the greenhouse early to swipe some herbs? You were risking your life out here, surely that deserved a little rosemary.

At one point, Kat made a noise—something halfway between a sigh and a breath—and you turned your head so sharply your neck cracked.

She raised her eyebrows at you. “You okay?”

You gave her a thin, polite smile. “Peachy.”

More silence.

The worst part? No one else seemed to mind it. Ellie and Dina were still locked in that not-quite-reconciled space, and Freddy was too focused on his surroundings to make small talk. The silence was never ending, and it was all-consuming.

That was, of course, until you noticed it— a small spat of blood across the snow, vivid against the blank white canvas like someone had dragged a brush across it in haste. You squinted, pulling gently on the reins to slow your horse.. It wasn’t a lot—not enough to suggest a massacre or a horde’s feeding frenzy—but enough to mean someone got hit, and hard. A wound bleeding mid-sprint, maybe. Fresh enough to still be red, not that muddy brown blood turned into after it sat too long in the cold.

You groaned quietly, more out of habit than surprise, and signaled with a raised hand to halt. The horses obeyed, snorting and shuffling in the snow as the rest of the group came to an uneasy stop around you.

“Oh fuck,” Freddy muttered from the rear, his voice already rising with unease. “We’re going to die.”

You didn’t even bother answering. Freddy always leaned toward the melodramatic, but to his credit, he usually wasn’t wrong about danger. And judging by the way every head turned toward him—including yours—you weren’t the only one feeling that knot in your gut begin to tighten.

Behind you, hoofbeats shifted—quicker, familiar—and you didn’t even have to look to know Ellie and Dina had finally caught up. You felt it before you saw it. The air changed slightly, like the mood had shifted to something sharper, more purposeful.

Ellie rode up beside you and glanced at the blood, her expression unreadable. She met your eyes briefly, then jerked her chin forward in that clipped, confident way she always did when she’d already made up her mind.

“Let’s go,” she said simply, and without hesitation, clicked her tongue to her horse and trotted forward, her posture relaxed but alert.

You didn’t reply—just gave a single nod and nudged your horse to follow.

“Okay,” Dina said, tone rising with that familiar hum of adrenaline, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “We’re on.”

The tension cracked like ice beneath a boot.

“Wait,” Kat’s voice cut through the momentum like a blade. Her horse shifted uneasily beneath her. “We should go back and report it. Let someone else handle this.”

You turned in your saddle, expression tight, heels already nudging your horse to keep pace. “Kat, we wait, and this will be covered by nightfall,” you said sharply. “If we want to be stupid and miss whatever this leads to, sure. But I’m not walking back to Jackson with nothing except 'we saw some blood.’”

“Yeah,” Dina chimed in, spinning her horse around just enough to face the rest of the group, voice dry but amused. “We’re reconning, Kat. Let’s fuckin’ recon.”

Freddy groaned. “God, I hate it when she says it like that. It’s always right before shit hits the fan.”

You couldn’t help the small smirk that broke across your face as you leaned forward, eyes scanning the trees ahead. The blood trail might’ve been small, but it was something. A sign. And in this world, signs mattered. Hesitation got people killed. You'd all been lucky before, but luck wasn’t a strategy.

“Come on,” you called over your shoulder, your voice clear and steady, cutting through the hush that had settled over the group. When you didn’t hear the familiar sound of hooves following behind, you slowed and turned Birdie with a gentle tug of the reins.

Your fingers brushed her neck instinctively, grounding yourself. Birdie—your steadfast companion of four years, a parting gift from someone you didn’t talk about often—snorted softly, her breath a puff of white in the cold air. She was calm beneath you, alert but trusting. Always trusting.

You glanced back at the group, locking eyes with Kat, who hadn’t moved an inch from her place on the road.

“Fine,” you said, your tone sharpening just slightly. “If you guys want to stick behind and do some more investigating of this area, that’s fine. Maybe the blood spatters’ll tell you their life story.”

You saw Kat’s jaw twitch, but she stayed quiet.

You shifted in the saddle, voice firmer now. “But protocol says three at all times. So I’ll go with Dina and Ells, kay?”

Dina gave you an encouraging nod from beside Ellie, who looked like she was already mentally ten steps ahead. Neither of them questioned your call—they just waited.

Kat frowned, clearly biting back whatever argument she wanted to throw out. She glanced at Dillon, then Freddy, who wasn’t even pretending to be invested in the drama, and finally relented with a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Forty minutes. If you’re not back or we don’t hear from you, I’m coming after you.”

“Aw,” Dina chirped. “You do care.”

Kat ignored her.

“And just to be clear,” Kat added, her voice carrying that clipped, condescending edge, “I’m going to assume you’re dead.”

Before you could respond, Freddy deadpanned from the back, “You really wanna be the one to tell the Millers the girls are dead?” He gestured vaguely at the horizon. “I’d rather die out here.”

Dillon let out a strangled snort of laughter, then immediately tried to stifle it with a cough.

You couldn’t help the small, amused huff that escaped you, even as the tension still hummed beneath the surface. “Forty minutes,” you said, giving Kat one last look. 

You turned Birdie again, nudging her forward with a silent command, the mare moving with practiced ease beneath you. Dina and Ellie fell into place without a word, the three of you instinctively forming the triangle of coverage you’d fallen into countless times before. Snow crunched beneath the horses’ hooves in steady rhythm, but even that familiar sound was muffled beneath the growing pressure of the woods around you. The trees seemed to lean in closer the farther you went, their branches arching overhead like brittle fingers, casting long shadows that swayed with each icy gust.

The blood trail continued on, steady and measured—spatters spaced just enough to suggest motion without staggering. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t wild. Whatever had been bleeding hadn’t collapsed… yet. The consistency of it was too clean, too purposeful. Not an animal kill. Not a skirmish. A wound, maybe. Deep, but not immediately fatal. And whatever it was, it had enough left in it to keep moving.

The trail led into the edge of a town, one you recognized. A half-forgotten place that had been picked over long before you were ever old enough to hold a rifle. A few houses sat in silent ruin, their walls leaning, roofs half-caved under the burden of years and snow. The windows were empty sockets, glass long gone, and their insides looted of everything useful. You’d passed through before—maybe twice, maybe more. There’d never been anything left worth taking. Until now.

The blood turned toward the supermarket. You felt it before you saw it—that creeping pull in your gut. The shift in atmosphere. The kind of pressure that always came right before something awful.

And then you saw them.

Clickers. Three of them, sprawled just outside the shattered doors of the market, their bodies still and sunken in the snow. The growth of fungus had overtaken their faces entirely, rendering them faceless, eyeless—heads crowned with thick, crusted blossoms of cordyceps. Their limbs were twisted unnaturally, arms bent at angles that suggested the fight had been swift, brutal, and close. Snow had gathered on the exposed parts of their bodies, but beneath that dusting was blood—thick, dark, and still wet enough to shine faintly in the light.

They hadn’t just been taken down. They’d been torn down. Brutally. Viscerally.

And in the center of the massacre, lying awkwardly across the frozen concrete, was the bear.

It was young—its body not yet filled out to full size, but strong, thick-furred, heavy with muscle. Or it had been. Now, it was a ruin of what it once was. Its face was half-eaten, the snout gnawed down to the bone. The lower jaw hung slack, exposed. One eye was missing entirely. Its ribs had been split apart at the center like a butcher’s cut, the cavity inside hollowed and savaged, innards spilled out in coiled ropes across the ice. The stomach cavity was jagged, uneven, torn as though by hands—or claws—too strong to be anything natural. Blood had soaked deep into the snow, spreading in every direction like an inkblot, staining the white until it looked almost painted.

The stench was unbearable. Metallic, sharp, and layered with the sickly-sweet rot of exposed organs and cooling bodies. The smell of fungal decay mingled with the blood, clinging to the air in a way that made your throat tighten.

No signs of dragging. No other footprints.

It hadn’t been moved. It had died here.

And around it—the clickers. Also dead. Not from gunshots. Not clean kills. Their necks were twisted. One had its skull smashed in, the fungal bloom crushed flat against the sidewalk like someone had stepped on a mushroom and kept stepping until it stopped twitching.

The horses grew restless. Birdie pawed at the ground, ears twitching. Ellie’s horse let out a sharp huff, and Dina’s grunted, side-stepping once before settling again. Even they knew. Something was wrong here.

You dismounted slowly, eyes sweeping the area, and noted that the blood trail didn’t end here. It continued. Fainter now. A drip here. A streak there. As though whatever—or whoever—had done this hadn’t been untouched.

“How many infected does it take to bring down a bear?” Dina quipped, the edges of her voice still sharp with unease, but softening just enough to let in that familiar humor she used as armor.

To that, you huffed, shaking your head slowly. “More than what we’re seeing for sure.”

Your eyes remained locked on the scene, scanning every limb, every streak of red, trying to find an answer that made sense. None did.

“Check out that van.” Ellie’s voice cut in, calm but focused. She gestured with her chin, and both you and Dina followed her gaze to the rusted-out vehicle parked crooked just outside the market’s entrance. From a distance, it looked unremarkable—one of a thousand decaying shells you’d seen across dead cities—but something about the angle of the doors, the black smudges near the back, made your stomach knot.

“So they’ve been sheltering in the market,” Dina murmured, as if finishing a thought that had been forming between you all.

“And one of them—or god, maybe more—got back in,” you added, voice low as your eyes scanned the darkened windows of the building. “Maybe while they were sleeping. Maybe just hungry.”

“Probably needed a nap after chomping on that poor thing,” Dina said with a slow, almost sarcastic nod, her eyes flicking back to the bear.

You tilted your head slightly, staring at the disemboweled mass again. It was unsettling—not just because of the violence, but because of how much had been left behind. The ribs were split, the organs torn, but the flesh… too much of it remained. Like the infected had started feeding and then decided they didn’t like the taste. Like something about it wasn’t right.

Your thoughts were still trying to piece it together when Dina spoke again, too cheerfully for the setting.

“Hey,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the corpse, a light suddenly sparking across her face as a grin spread wide. She turned to Ellie with mischief in her voice. “What do you call a grizzly’s ribs?”

You groaned—long. Loud. Dramatic. The kind of sigh that could power a windmill.

“Holy fuck,” you muttered, dismounting as your hands moved to unbuckle Birdie’s reins. “You two are just made to get along. Like it’s disgusting. A curse upon my house.”

Dina didn’t even flinch. “Bear-B-que,” she finished triumphantly, grabbing the reins from you as you passed them over.

Ellie blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, she looked like she might resist—might preserve some shred of her hardened reputation—but then the smallest, most helpless sound cracked out of her throat, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Did you just… make that up?” Ellie asked, a laugh threatening at the corners of her mouth. “Bear-B-que?”

“Yeah!” Dina beamed, unapologetic and radiant in her success.

And so, as you slowly walked towards the bear, which was something that would probably get you yelled at by Joel, you hear them both laugh about the stupidity of their joke and damn, if they weren’t made for eachother than who would be. 

“Starshine,” Ellie called, and when you looked back to her she motioned to the building, “You think the hungry boy is still in there?” You scrunch your nose as you look at the scattered bodies of the infected, and you grumble, “Probably,” you murmured, eyes still on the mess in front of you. “And I’m thinking more like a hungry family—but, like, small family, you know? Two-and-a-half infected, tops.”

That earned a grin from both Ellie and Dina—just that small spark of shared humor in the middle of horror—and you stood a little straighter, brushing snow from your coat as your breath fogged the air.

Just as you did, the sound of hooves crunching through the snow grew louder behind you, and you turned to see Kat, Freddy, and Dillon arriving. They came into view with slow, wary steps, their expressions shifting the moment they spotted the scene you’d found.

You offered a cheeky smile. “Hasn’t been forty minutes. Get bored?”

Kat glared at you in that way that only she could—like she wanted to snap back but couldn’t quite summon the energy. Her eyes moved to the bear, then the clickers, then slowly back to the blood trail leading into the supermarket. Her expression faltered.

“You guys happy now? Content?” she asked, voice flat.

Before you could answer, Ellie dismounted with a fluid motion, boots hitting the snow with a soft thud. She didn’t meet Kat’s eyes. She just moved toward her bag, fingers quick and sure as she gathered her things. “Hey,” she said quietly, but firmly. “Can we go back now? Please?”

There was something fragile under her voice—not panic, not quite—but fear, layered beneath her usual steel. It was rare enough that it made everyone pause. Kat looked away. Even Freddy sobered up.

You opened your mouth, but Ellie beat you to it, standing upright again with renewed focus. “Yeah. We will. Promise,” she said, nodding once. “We’re just gonna listen real quick. See if anyone’s inside.” She turned toward the supermarket, pulling a shotgun from the saddle and tossing it to you without looking. “Which is definitely recon.”

You caught it by reflex, blinking. “Yeah! Yeah, I mean, what if there’s like… a normal person in there? Someone injured? They probably need medical—yeah!”

“What if there’s a family in there?” Dina added quickly, already hoisting her rifle over her shoulder as she trotted up beside you.

“With children!” you nodded emphatically, falling into step with Ellie as she moved toward the shattered entrance.

“With babies!!” Dina finished, her tone perfectly sincere despite the obvious dramatics.

You couldn’t help but snort, even as you carefully scanned the windows and doorways for movement. The three of you moved together now like clockwork—an exaggerated march of purpose and bullshit, your banter keeping the fear at bay, if only barely.

Behind you, Dillion whispered to Freddy, “That’s terrifying. They’re like… weirdly synced.”

Freddy just nodded. “We’re all gonna die.”

You didn’t hear it. Or maybe you did, and chose not to answer. Either way, the doors loomed ahead, and you were already inside the story—following blood and bad jokes straight into whatever waited beyond.

Jackson was known as a haven, or perhaps more accurately, as a living testament to the virtues of freedom and community—a sanctuary steadily blossoming into one of the largest and most hospitable enclaves around. In this unique place, life moved with an air of unencumbered possibility; unlike the strict rigidity of QZs, here people were free to wander in and out as they saw fit. There was an unspoken agreement that every person who arrived, regardless of their background or training, would contribute in some way, enriching the fabric of the community.

Over time, the spirit of Jackson grew contagious. The town’s ethos was built not on enforced conformity but on an organic, ever-evolving tapestry of contributions. Mechanics diligently kept the essential machinery humming, ensuring that the gears of progress never ground to a halt, while construction workers transformed raw materials into dwellings and communal spaces that stood as monuments to collective effort. Medical personnel offered healing and hope not merely through their expertise, but through a gentle, empathetic touch that reassured the weary and infirm alike. Even educators, nannies, and chefs played their parts, each role a crucial thread in the narrative of resilience and self-governance.

The diversity of skills and the willingness to share them imbued Jackson with a vibrancy that transcended conventional societal boundaries. Patrols, manned by those trained to maintain order without suffocating freedom, roamed the streets with a sense of duty tempered by compassion. Beyond these watchful guardians, gardeners coaxed life from the earth in communal plots, turning barren scraps of land into flourishing oases, while artists and builders reimagined the urban landscape into a living canvas of creativity. In Jackson, every contribution—be it technical expertise or a humble act of nurturing—was celebrated as a step toward a more cohesive, supportive society.

Community life here was expressed through everyday rituals that reinforced a deep sense of belonging. Evening gatherings around crackling fires, spontaneous street festivals, and shared meals brought neighbors together, transforming simple acts of daily living into opportunities for collective celebration. In Jackson, the freedom to come and go was matched by an enduring invitation to give back, creating a cycle where each newcomer soon discovered that their efforts were valued, their skills indispensable, and their individuality a vital ingredient in the communal stew. 

Even then, if someone crossed into the city walls—those same walls painstakingly erected by the founders, the original survivors whose very hands were stained with the gore and sweat of the outbreak—they were met not with exclusion, but with a measured welcome. Even if such a person appeared to lack the talents or qualities that could immediately contribute to the thriving community, the citizens would not cast them aside. The true measure of a town was not merely in the sum of its skills, but in the spirit of inclusivity that defined its very nature. If the inhabitants were to dismiss those who did not prove their worth at once, what remained would be less a town and more a grim penitentiary—a place where the weak were all too easily deemed disposable, left to be metaphorically fed to the wolves.

In the heart of this sanctuary, every soul was seen as having inherent potential. The founders had built these walls not as barriers to keep humanity at bay, but as a shield against the relentless chaos outside—a testament to their belief in redemption and transformation. Here, every newcomer, regardless of their immediate utility, was afforded the opportunity to grow, learn, and eventually contribute to the collective strength of the community. This unwavering commitment to nurturing latent potential was what set the town apart. It was a place where value was not measured solely by apparent skills but by the capacity to evolve and to enrich the community in myriad ways. 

“I’m sorry,” you force out a laugh as you spin around on your creaking chair, your eyes narrowing playfully at the man slumped across the makeshift treatment station. “You broke your wrist…”

“Pottery,” he deadpans, his lips curling into a rueful grin that hinted at a lifetime of misadventures and unforeseen consequences.

“Pottery,” you echo with a gentle nod, as if acknowledging both the absurdity and the stubborn pride behind his words. Rising from your seat, you retrieve a well-worn, sanded-down piece of wood and a faded, yet dependable, bandage from your improvised kit. The room—once a humble bedroom now converted into a rudimentary clinic—smells faintly of antiseptic mixed with the lingering aroma of burnt wood and memories of better times. You push the rolling chair aside with deliberate care and reach for his very…very broken wrist. Despite the inflammation and bruise marring its surface, nothing in the injury screamed for an invasive procedure; a sturdy splint would suffice.

“Whatcha make?” you ask, half in curiosity and half in an effort to distract him from the pain etched across his weathered face.

The man hums thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to a small, uneven crack in the wooden wall as if seeking counsel from its silent testimony. “Whatever is wanted. I mostly do it for free, though that’s not getting me very far these days,” he confesses, the lilt in his voice mingling gratitude with resignation. His words carry the quiet weight of countless sacrifices in a world that rarely rewards kindness.

“Kind man,” you chirp, securing the bandage with practiced precision, winding it around itself until it snugly supports his splinted wrist. Your tone is both affectionate and admonishing—a reminder that even in suffering, there is dignity in compassion. “Kindness will always end up coming back around for us, you know? Now, I want you to come back in two weeks so I can see how it looks. If it gets worse or starts aching more than a little, if you feel even a hint of sickness—come back sooner. And if I’m not here, just head over to the Miller house on Main, okay?”

With a small nod, he agrees and walks out of the clinic room, leaving you alone with the sterile hum of machinery and the soft shuffle of wounded survivors. You finish scribbling down your notes with deliberate precision, carefully tucking them into the aging hallway filing cabinet—a repository of stories, failures, and small triumphs. Stepping down the creaking stairs, your boots sink slightly into the muddy residue of neglect, each step stirring memories of the days when this place pulsed with hope rather than a quiet resignation.

At the base of the stairs, you reach for a sheet of paper suspended on the hanging system—a crude schedule for check-ups that, despite its makeshift appearance, speaks volumes about the effort to hold on to some semblance of order. Your eyes scan down the list, and as you reach the next name, your smile falters, your breath catching on the syllables written on the paper. The name shimmers in faded ink, and with a sudden jolt, you exclaim, “Ellie!”

You quickly read over the note that trails below her name and age, your heart thudding as old worries and new concerns battle in your chest. Your gaze snaps toward the waiting area—a cramped room where survivors sat huddled on an overstuffed sofa and scattered benches. There, amid the low murmur of anxious conversation, Ellie had popped up like an unexpected ember of defiance. A stupid grin plastered across her face, her features marred with smears of dried blood that she wore almost as a badge of honor.

The room held a stark collage of vulnerability and resilience. Faces etched with weariness offered fleeting smiles at the sight of someone who defied the odds, and the quiet banter of patients waiting for both you and the nurse filled the space with tentative life. Ellie’s grin, despite its crudity, was infectious—a silent rebellion against despair.

You set the paper down with a soft sigh, the weight of responsibility anchoring your thoughts. Stepping forward, you navigate through the crowd, your eyes locking with hers. In that brief, charged moment, time seemed to pause: you saw not just a patient, but a fighter whose spark illuminated the dullness of the day. “Ellie,” you call gently, your voice a blend of concern and warmth, “let’s get you taken care of.”

The corridor, the faded notes, and the murmurs of those waiting all faded into the background as you led her toward the clinic. She happily settles onto the bed, a spark of mischief in her eyes despite the scars life had etched on her. You watch as she relaxes, her posture betraying the rough resilience of someone who’s seen too much yet still manages to smile. You retrieve the bottle of alcohol and a threadbare towel from the counter—a silent arsenal against both infection and despair—then sink into the chair before drifting over to sit directly across from her.

“Should I ask?” You teases, tone light despite the battered evidence of a recent tussle lingering on your face.

“Eh, it was a scrimmage,” She reples, y voice carrying an amused skepticism as you unscrew the cap and dampen the cloth for a cleaning. 

Your eyes narrow with a half-grimace as you bring the wipe close, studying the smear of dried blood and the careless smudges that told their own story. With a scowl, you add, “And it looks like you got fucking owned. Poor Dina—her girlfriend is a dumbass.”

A flash of indignation crosses her features, a blend of anger and hurt pooling in her eyes. “Did not?! And! And Dina is not— I’m not—” she begins, words tumbling out in a rush before she stops, caught in the weight of her own frustrated laughter and the absurdity of the situation.

You pause, your gaze holding hers steadily as if waiting for her to find solid ground in the storm of teasing and reprimand.

 The silence thickens the space between your jabs and gentle care. Finally, leaning back slightly and softening just a hint, she retorts, “Shut up, I came here to check in, haven’t seen you in like a month.”

To that, you fall quiet, the kind of silence that stretches—grows heavier the longer it lingers. You shrug after a moment, not out of dismissal, but because the weight of what you want to say sits awkwardly between your ribs. You double-check your work with mechanical precision—swelling, signs of infection—anything to delay the next part. Then you scoot back to the supply table, the legs of your chair scraping softly against the scuffed wooden floor. You reach for your clipboard, jotting down post-meeting notes and marking off the medical supplies used, all while your mind pieces together the words you’ve kept tucked under your tongue for weeks.

Finally, as the pen slows in your hand, you say it—soft but honest. “Well, Ells… you’re the one who stopped coming by.”

Ellie falters, visibly, her fingers twitching against her thigh as she huffs and leans back against the wall, her expression tight. “Fuck. Yeah. I guess so. But c’mon—you can’t blame me for that.”

Your eyes flick up to meet hers, and for a long second, neither of you looks away. “No,” you admit quietly, “I don’t. We’re growing up. I…I get that. And maybe part of that means splitting off. Becoming our own people.” You pause, bracing yourself with a shaky breath before continuing. “But even I know I’m not gonna magically stop being ‘Joel’s girl.’ That’s not something that washes off, y’know?”

Ellie shifts in place, her brow creasing, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“And like it or not,” you say, voice catching a little, “you fall into that same category. Whether you like it or not, you’re his, too. Maybe not by blood, but it doesn’t matter. He called you ‘kiddo.’ He loved you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. “I don’t know what happened between you two. I don’t know what he did or what you did or why it broke everything so bad. All I know is one day you just… stopped talking. Family dinners stopped. Movie nights became ‘read alone in your own damn corner’ nights. And I didn’t say anything because I figured maybe you’d come around.”

You swallow. “I get it if you hate him, I do. But he’s my dad, Ells. And I can’t choose between you and him. I won’t. It’s not fair. And… and I’m sitting here spilling my heart out like this is some kind of therapy session, so—”

“Eh,” Ellie cuts in, trying to soften the blow with a shrug and a small, forced grin. “Good place to do it. Soundproof walls, right?”

You snort a laugh through a sigh, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Yeah. Best perk of this makeshift clinic, honestly. No one hears me yell at my patients.”

“Or cry,” Ellie offers quietly, and it’s said in a teasing tone, but there’s something raw underneath it. Something vulnerable. “ I just… when it all happened, I didn’t know how to be around you without seeing him. So I avoided it.”

You nod, fiddling with the edge of the clipboard like it holds all the answers you wish you had. “Yeah. I figured it was something like that.”

There’s a pause, a thick kind of silence that settles after something honest has been said. Neither of you really knows what to do with it. It lingers long enough for you to notice the distant hum of conversation downstairs, boots scuffing wood, someone laughing too loud in the hallway. Then, you clear your throat, unsure if you're ready to break the fragile moment but doing it anyway.

“I’m going on a patrol,” you say, quietly at first. “There’s a chance… I mean, there’s word that there might be a pharmacy further out—past the ridge. I’m heading out with a couple others. I haven’t… told my dad yet.”

Ellie immediately sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Joel? Letting little baby Starshine out of Jackson?” She grins, devilish and teasing. “Dude, he’ll have a stroke right there on the porch.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you groan, smacking her leg lightly with the clipboard. “Don’t say shit like that, seriously, you’re gonna jinx me. But for real—I’m trying to be smart about it. If there’s even a chance we can find stuff—antibiotics, insulin, trauma meds—anything, it’s worth the risk.”

Ellie’s smile fades into something softer, more thoughtful. “Yeah. It is.”

You glance over at her, hopeful. “Do you guys know what medications we’re low on? I figure if I’m going, I should at least grab the right stuff—wait, you are still on the patrol rotation, right?”

Ellie hesitates. That twitch of her brow, the way her mouth presses into a thin line—dead giveaways.

“I’m… talkin’ to Tommy about it,” she says vaguely, avoiding your eyes.

You blink, eyebrows rising. “Right. So what—you think Joel’s gonna let you go gallivanting past the ridge when you’re not even cleared for patrol?”

She looks at you, jaw clenched, and for a second you can see the storm gathering behind her eyes.

“He is not my dad,” she snaps, a little too loud, a little too fast. There’s that fire again—half hurt, half fury. All Ellie.

You stare at her, then say, softer but firm, “He might as well be.”

Her mouth opens like she’s going to argue, to throw something sharp and final at you—but the words die in her throat. Instead, she scrubs a hand down her face, frustrated. “It’s not that simple,” she mutters.

“I know it’s not.” You lean forward, elbows on your knees. “But you can’t keep pretending like he’s just some guy who happened to keep you alive a few years ago. You know damn well that man would burn Jackson to the ground if something happened to you.”

Ellie huffs, not denying it, but clearly wrestling with the weight of it, “Yeah well he’s a piece of-...He’s Joel, he’s your dad….still figruing out how I play into this.”

You nod, understanding more than you let on. “You don’t have to have it figured out. But don’t shut him out because you’re scared of what forgiving him means. Or what not forgiving him means.”

Ellie tilts her head at you. “Since when did you get all wise?”

You smirk. “I treat bullet wounds and dislocated shoulders for a living. Comes with a side of unsolicited life advice.”

She laughs at that—a real one this time—and then leans back on the bed, arms crossed behind her head. “So… you’re really going?”

“Yeah. Day after tomorrow. Early.” You hesitate. “You could come, y’know. If Tommy signs off. It’d be… nice. To have you there. Plus…I’m pretty sure Dina is coming.”

“I was already sold you didn’t-” 

“Oh but I wanted to, I so so sooooo wanted to.”

-

“I come bearing gifts!” you call out as you shoulder the door open with a little more force than necessary, the wood groaning under the pressure. Your voice carries through the room like sunlight filtering through a cracked window—familiar, teasing, and just enough to disrupt the quiet.

Turning around, you find your father exactly where you expected him: hunched over that overstuffed desk in the far corner, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, eyes squinting down at paperwork covered in numbers, scribbled timelines, and blocky handwriting that looked like it hadn’t changed since the outbreak. The desk itself is a mess—organized chaos, really—with loose files, maps, ration logs, and the occasional empty coffee mug that had seen better days. A few knick-knacks are scattered around—an old photo in a cracked frame, a pocket knife, a carved wooden elk. It’s the kind of clutter that says someone lives here. Someone stayed.

Despite the dried blood that still lined your sleeves and the faint yellow stain of iodine on your fingertips, you carry the Tupperware container full of cooked meat into the room like it’s a peace offering to two war strategists. Probably because it is.

Joel glances up at the sound of your voice, brow lifting just slightly in that way he does when he’s half-expecting trouble and half-hoping it’s just you being dramatic. With a casual flick of his hand, he motions for you to come closer.

You oblige, setting the Tupperware down on the nearest clear corner of the desk. Then, with a grin, you lean over and press a kiss to the top of his head, the way you always have—since you were little, since before Jackson, since before everything. He grunts at the affection but doesn’t pull away.

Your eyes trail over the cluttered mess he’s buried in: outlines of patrol shifts, expansion routes, stockpile inventories, and timelines for the repairs. You squint at the fine print and mutter under your breath, “Y’all should print these in English next time.”

Across the room, your aunt Maria stands by the wide-paned window, arms folded, gaze locked on Main Street below. She hasn’t said anything yet, but you can tell by the tension in her shoulders and the way her jaw tightens that whatever conversation had been happening before you walked in wasn’t exactly a fun one. She doesn’t look away from the view, but her presence fills the room just the same.

With a small hum, you tilt your head toward the desk, eyes scanning the mess with feigned interest. “You guys look like you’re in the middle of a very interesting conversation,” you remark, voice dipped in sarcasm but light enough to pass for a joke.

JJoel lets out a short, humorless breath—almost a laugh. “If ‘how the hell are we gonna stretch five gallons of gas across three outposts’ counts as interesting, then sure.” He rubs the back of his neck and leans forward, squinting at the latest update scrawled in rushed handwriting. “But back to it—the school and the library by spring, right? Both need new roofs. With the manpower we’ve got, I don’t see any of this gettin’ done ‘til summer, at best.”

Even though Maria stood by the window like she was listening, it was painfully obvious her thoughts were elsewhere. Her fingers tapped anxiously against her arm, and her voice cut in abruptly. “This window isn’t keepin’ the cold out anymore.”

Joel blinked at the sudden shift, his brow furrowing. “Chalk—it’s high up on my list,” he replied, gesturing vaguely toward one of the lists you’d been flipping through. “We’ve been burnin’ through a ton of it patching the new residential stretch—”

“We need to build faster,” she interrupted.

That caught your attention. You looked up from the supply logs you'd been scanning, the ones filled with crossed-off names and absences—reminders of the last flu outbreak and the dwindling labor pool. Even with good weather and no new crises, the odds were steep. You didn’t need to be a genius to know that “build faster” wasn’t a request grounded in reality. It was desperation, plain and simple.

Joel straightened in his chair, eyes flicking to the page you’d been reading before settling back on Maria. “Faster?” he repeated, voice low with disbelief. He tapped the edge of the desk once, then again, as if grounding himself. “Sure. How much faster? See, we got this dial called the constructo-meter.”

“Joel,” Maria warned, not even turning her head.

He grinned—just barely—but kept going. “The more you turn it, the faster we go.”

“Joel.”

You had to bite your lip to keep the laugh in. The way his voice dipped into mock-enthusiasm and the faux-serious glint in his eye made it worse.

Maria turned slightly, catching your expression out of the corner of her eye. “Starshine, do not egg him on.”

You raised both hands in mock surrender, forcing your grin into something that resembled composure. “Yes, ma’am,” you said, a little too obediently, and Joel snorted behind his hand.

—

The sky had already dimmed by the time you and Joel made it back home, the golden wash of sunset giving way to the soft gray hush of evening. The walk back had been quiet, not in a tense way, but the kind of comfortable silence that settles between two people used to surviving side by side. Jackson had quieted too—doors shutting, boots scraping porches, the faint hiss of fires being started in hearths. It felt like the town was exhaling after a long day.

Joel pushed open the door to your shared home and stepped aside to let you in first. You kicked your boots off at the threshold, flexing your aching feet with a tired grunt before hanging your coat on the hook near the door. Joel followed behind you, rubbing the back of his neck, already drifting toward the small kitchen.

“You hungry?” he asked, already reaching for the pan you’d left drying on the counter.

“I brought meat earlier, remember?” you said, flopping onto the couch and letting your head fall back against the cushion. “You and Maria were too busy arguing about the constructo-meter.”

Joel snorted. “Right.” He set the pan down and turned back to look at you, arms crossed over his chest now. “You did good, bringin’ that in. Whole damn town’s been stretched thin. That kinda help… matters.”

You gave him a soft smile, one that flickered briefly before your expression shifted. You sat up straighter, elbows resting on your knees as you stared down at your hands. They still bore faint traces of iodine and dirt under your nails, the stubborn signs of clinic work that wouldn’t fully wash away.

Joel noticed the shift immediately. “Alright,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. Tried to find the right tone—something between don’t freak out and I’m not asking for permission. You settled for honesty.

“There’s a patrol heading out tomorrow,” you began. “Northwest ridge. There's a possible pharmacy out there. Might be looted already, but it could have some meds we’re low on—antibiotics, insulin, maybe even some old morphine. Tommy signed off on it.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away, and that silence hit harder than any words could’ve.

You took a breath. “I’m going with them.”

His jaw worked, but he kept his arms crossed, like he was holding himself in place. “The hell you are.”

You blinked. “Dad—”

“No,” he cut in, voice firmer now. “You’ve been patchin’ people up all week. You’re still limping from that last run. You don’t need to be out there riskin’ your neck when we’ve got actual patrol units trained for this kinda thing.”

“I am trained for this kind of thing,” you snapped, standing up now, tension threading into your spine. “And they need me. If we find anything useful, it could save lives. You know that.”

Joel shook his head, the line of his mouth tightening. “We also need you here. What good are you gonna be if you end up six feet under some collapsed shelf or with a clicker tearing through your back?”

You stepped forward, closing the space between you. “You don’t get to keep me wrapped in cotton just because the world scares you, Dad.”

His eyes flared at that—hurt, then anger, then something deeper. Something raw. Unfiltered. Like you’d struck a nerve that had never fully healed. He turned away from you for a second, running a hand down his face like he was trying to physically wipe the emotion off of it, like if he just pressed hard enough, the truth might stay buried where it had always been safer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, rougher. It scraped out of him like gravel being dragged over stone.

“It ain’t the world that scares me. It’s the thought of losin’ you.”

That stopped you in your tracks.

Your mouth opened and closed once, twice. You blinked hard, because your vision had started to swim, and you couldn’t decide if it was from rage, guilt, or the sudden ache in your chest. Maybe all three.

“Damn your fuckin’ therapist,” you said, laughing through a crude huff. “The hell was that? You been rehearsin’ that line in the mirror or something?”

But the crack in your voice betrayed you.

Joel turned just slightly, catching the flicker of tears you were trying to blink away and the trembling laugh you were barely keeping under control. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you from under that furrowed brow of his, expression unreadable—because that’s what Joel did when the feelings got too big. He locked down. He stayed quiet, like silence could protect the both of you.

You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, exhaling hard. “Fuck, that was... that was mean,” you said, voice muffled. “You don’t get to drop a line like that and expect me to just pack my damn bag and leave without feeling like shit.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to make you feel like shit,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I’m just… tellin’ the truth.”

You let your hands fall and look at him, really look at him. The years carved into his face. The tired eyes that had seen too much. The way his shoulders never fully relaxed. The man who had survived everything except peace. And the man who had, somehow, learned how to love again in the middle of it all.

“Yeah,” you muttered, voice quieter now. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of grief, of love, of a thousand things neither of you had said in all the days and nights spent in each other’s company. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, suddenly unsure if you should stay or go. If the distance between you was safer than the closeness.

Joel rubbed at his jaw, then sat heavily on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “You remind me so damn much of her,” he said after a beat. “Of Sarah.”

Your breath caught.

You lowered yourself onto the armrest opposite him, resting your hands in your lap, unsure if moving would make it worse. “You’ve never said that before.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t say a lotta things. Doesn’t mean I don’t think ‘em.”

Another silence, softer this time.

“I’m not her,” you said, not cruelly. Just gently. “I know you know that. But you gotta let me do this. You gotta let me …people need medicine.”

Joel looked at you, and whatever had hardened in his expression before—whatever wall he’d built to keep the world out—it cracked just a little. His voice came out low.

“I know I can’t stop you. And I ain’t tryin’ to keep you caged in. I just… wish I could give you a world where you didn’t have to be this brave.”

You smiled, sad and warm. “Yeah.”

He nodded, slowly. “So… you packin’ tonight or in the mornin’?”

“Tonight,” you replied, standing again with a shaky sigh. “You still gonna check my gear?”

Joel smirked faintly. “Damn right, get the rouger out I’ll clean ‘er for you.”

And just like that, the moment passed—but not forgotten. Not buried. Just quietly folded up and stored between you, like a well-worn blanket you’d both pull out when the nights got too long.

----

4 years before....

You always felt like the weather was almost taunting; the most beautiful of days could be overclouded with the harshest of emotions, and the harshest of days would be overcast with glee—perhaps, you assumed after a while, it was God’s humor. After all, in a world where your creations morph themselves into cannibalistic tree-like abnormalities, wouldn’t you, as a God, require something to keep the show you watch funny?

And yet, as you lingered under skies that shifted as abruptly as the moods of a capricious deity, you couldn’t shake the feeling that every element was part of an elaborate cosmic punchline. The brilliance of dawn might conceal under its golden glow an unexpected melancholy, while dusk’s deep purples and reds often brought with them a reminder that even decay could be beautiful. It was as though the universe itself delighted in a paradoxical jest—a scenario where profound sorrow twined effortlessly with unbridled joy.

Such as it was on that sun-filled day, the desolate greenscape of what had once been a large, bustling city sprawled before you, a poetic testament to nature’s inexorable reclaiming of human ambition. The urban skeleton, long abandoned to the march of time, was now overcast with the veins of earth—cracks and fissures mapping the rise of wild, unruly greenery that had stealthily woven its way through every crevice of once-proud architecture. The remnants of pavement and forgotten alleyways served as canvases upon which nature painted its slow, deliberate masterpiece.

Beams of light, bold and resolute, pierced through the dense canopy of trees in sporadic intervals, their shafts providing little but precious relief from the relentless summer heat. Each ray illuminated pockets of decay and remnants of history—a rusted sign swaying in a gentle breeze here, a shattered window catching the sun’s gleam there—reminding any observer that even in abandonment, the vestiges of the past could still whisper forgotten stories. The interplay between light and shadow cast intricate patterns on the overgrown facades, as if the city were sharing its silent secrets with the day. 

With a short, measured sigh, you carefully hang the necklace upon the last of the crosses—a lone tribute in a barren memorial, too slight an offering to encompass all the lives lost in the relentless struggle, yet significant enough to avoid attracting any further, ironic power plays from those who thrive in chaos. The bronze pendant caught the sun’s dying rays, its engraved symbol quivering in the wind as if to mock death itself, whispering that even in their silent, dismembered state beneath the soil, the fallen still carried remnants of defiance.

For someone all of 15 years old, you had witnessed more sorrow than most could bear—a harsh education in grief wrought by a world undone. You had lost your mother to a bite, a merciless act of fate that, even in its pre-infected horror, shattered the fragile grasp you held on hope. It was a cruel irony: she had given up everything to chase a promise—a promise that the man who now lay cold and forgotten could save your irredeemable world. Her sacrifice, her desperate leap towards a better future, lingered in your memory like the fading notes of a long-forgotten song.

And then there was Gary Anderson—a doctor who had taken you under his wing, briefly intertwining his fate with yours in a world void of certainty. His care, given when you felt your own blood had abandoned the very idea of you, had been a beacon amidst the desolation. In his quiet acts of kindness, you saw the embers of a humanity that refused to surrender to despair, a courage that blossomed even in the darkest hours. He had trained you in survival, not just in the physical sense, but in the art of carrying on the legacy of hope, even when the world around you had already succumbed to decay.

“Why would he do this?” The words barely registered in your mind, yet you still heard them. You forced yourself to react—a slight turn of the head from your hunched position on the makeshift grave, where bodies had been burned and the dirt hastily overturned to bury the ashes. Names blurred together in your memory—other Fireflies who had stood by that harrowing night when the only hue in the chaos was a relentless, ominous red. Even if their names had slipped away, their grief, raw and uncontained, resonated with you. And if Abigail found comfort in their silent presences, then you, too, would strain to remember every one of them.

“I heard rumors. It was some kid he took that was supposebly—” “That wasn’t true… it’s not possible.”

Your eyes, still adjusting against the glare of a sun that seemed to mock the grim scene, swept over the line of people gathered in muted solidarity. They were scattered like shadows in the brightness of day—each lost soul marked by recent calamities and eternal regrets. As your gaze trailed over to her, a small huff escaped you as you rose unsteadily, wincing as you moved against the bandaged bullet wound on your jeans, the fabric as worn as the weight of your past.

Abigail was older than you, around 16 if memory served right—her stature slight but her resolve unmistakable. Despite the grim chatter that lingered in the air like smoke, your focus was drawn to her. 

“You feeling okay?” You asked, tone carrying the unspoken concern of someone who had weathered too many storms. The look in her eyes was all the answer you needed, so you nodded slowly, tucking your hands into your pockets. “I…I can stay. I’ll stay. Get you guys settled, I mean—it wouldn’t hurt to have someone who could stitch y’all up.” Your attempt at humor was cautious, yet genuine; for a fleeting moment, you saw a spark of light return to her eyes.

Abby shook her head firmly. “You need to leave. We can’t both be fatherless—that would just be pathetic.” The words stung, and your eyes widened in a silent plea for reassurance. Sensing your discomfort, she softened her tone with a groan. “Fuck you, man, that was a good dead dad joke.”

You managed a small laugh, the sound brittle yet sincere. “Oh, thank God; yeah, no, that was good.” You ran a hand over your face, trying to dismiss the pain behind your smile. “But I’m serious—I’ll stay, help get you all settled. I feel…fuck, Gale, I feel like I can’t leave now. You… you’re basically all I got, and if—”

“You know I’m not coming with you,” she interrupted softly, the finality in her voice echoing the truth of your shared losses.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Even though Jackson is suuuper nice and there are cookies, and there's a wall, so it's safe, and my Aunt Maria is kinda cool—” You started in a half-joking tone.

“Sparrow,” she reminded you, her voice laced with both affection and exasperation.

“Right, sorry, Jackson is always open for you guys, Gale.” You repeated, the words a familiar refrain in your endless attempts to drag fleeting moments of normalcy out of desolation. Every conversation felt like a desperate negotiation with fate—if only you could humor the memory of Gary and the rest of the Fireflies long enough to leave, grab a truck or a horse, go back, get your uncle, and then maybe... then maybe. But he hadn’t come for you. It was safer to assume he was gone forever. Either way, Jackson was the closest thing you had to family.

“I’m serious. I don’t want to wake up in 30 years and think, ‘God, I wonder what happened to Gale.’”

“Bold of you to assume you’d make it to thirty years,” she teased, the irony of the moment hanging between you like a fragile truce.

You scoffed lightly, “Shut up. I’ll make it to sixty years old, just you watch—and it’d be nice if you popped by so I knew that you too made it past that prehistoric age.”

A long silence stretched out, filled only by the distant rustle of wind in the ruined trees and the soft murmurs of other survivors tending to their wounds. Then Abby’s eyes softened further, and she nodded. “Yeah. Of course, I’ll come by.”

“Okay.” The word hung in the air, laden with promises too heavy for one generation to uphold on its own. You exhaled slowly as you met Gale’s steady gaze, the unspoken understanding between you palpable against the weight of a world crumbling into dusk.

“I…I guess I should go, the horse is ready and I need to get out of the city before nightfall.” Your voice carried a blend of urgency and quiet resignation—a reminder that every moment wasted in this broken landscape increased the risk of yet another nightmare. The distant lowing of the horse, patiently waiting in the murky edge of the makeshift camp, underscored the relentless march of time toward darkness.

“That’s smart. You got guns? Ammo?” Abby asked, her tone a mixture of genuine concern and the dry humor that had become your shared lifeline in a world where such trivialities could mean the difference between life and death. The question, though simple, resonated like a mantra in the face of unyielding uncertainty.

You managed a wry, deadpan smile, shaking your head as if to ward off the grim inevitability of fate. “No.” Then, with a slight tilt of your head that betrayed both pride and fatigue, you added, “Not stupid, Gale. Course I do.” The brief interjection carried the irony of a desperate world—where survival often meant defying expectations even when resources were scant.

Abby’s eyes softened at your response, the corners crinkling with a mix of worry and reluctant admiration. “Don’t get bit, Sparrow.” Her words were both a command and a benediction—a small spark of warmth amid the encroaching gloom of an unforgiving reality.

A chuckle, dark and full of brittle humor, escaped you. “Wasn’t counting on it.” The remark wasn’t so much a joke as a bitter acknowledgment: in a landscape where every shadow hid potential peril, every step was a gamble with fate. Yet, within that irony lay a stubborn ember of defiance—a promise to fight for another day, against all odds.

With a small nod you take a step away and you look to your side, just to see everyone staring at you, “Uh…Innvation is open? But, I really-” You take a quick look to Abby, who simply nods and you look back to them, “Stay safe, guys.” 

It was always terrifying on how easy it is to turn around and walk away from something, especially when you know that you probably will never see them again.