Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you aware.
But what happens if it becomes who you are?
— Taylor Swift, “Cassandra”

An Albatross is a burden you can’t shake—guilt, shame, a past that follows you.
The name comes from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, where a sailor kills an albatross and is cursed to wear its body around his neck as punishment.
It’s a symbol of something you carry, even when you’ve forgotten why.

The scabs on your knees were stubbornly raw, barely set enough to keep from reopening. Each step split them anew, tearing flesh like frayed stitching coming loose. Pain seared fresh with every flex, blood soaking through shredded denim, seeping darkly into your socks, crusting over like dried rust. 

You swore you could hear it each time the wound reopened, a subtle ripping beneath the ambient hum of the woods—fabric and skin pulling apart, whisper-sharp. Yet, you fixed your gaze ahead, relentless, refusing to glance downward at the proof of your struggle.

With one hand, you cling to the sling of your rifle against your chest, the worn leather biting into your palm—a quiet reminder.

Always aim it up or down—never forward.

You remember. You’d forgotten.

You hadn’t even realized you’d raised it, not until the echo of Samuel’s voice cracked through your skull—low, disappointed. His hand pushing the barrel toward the dirt with a firm touch.

Unless you mean to kill, he’d said.

And now, you repeat it like penance.

That, and how easy it was to fall—from the saddle and from what you thought you had under control. 

They say horses can smell it on you—the fear, sorrow, grief. They know things that humans choose to overlook. And people overlook a lot. Maybe that’s why you got bucked off before the patrol even started—launched six feet into mud and frozen bedding, like the horse was trying to knock the nerves out of you first. You most likely bruised a rib or two, could feel it catch every time you took a deep breath.

You tug at the reins, knuckles burning with cold like a punishment. You hadn’t brought gloves—just forgot, or maybe because you didn’t own any yet. 

“Just ‘head that way, securin’ this perimeter,” Samuel mutters, voice rough with sleep. He doesn’t look at you when he says it—just jabs a gloved hand toward the distance, where the snow’s started to give way, revealing the ghost of a trail half-swallowed by thawing ice.

He’s in his forties, built like someone who’s seen too many winters and not enough spring. Blond hair knotted back into a bun, dark beard flecked with frost, eyes too tired to care if you understand him or not. Beside him, the young woman—Mia—clicks her tongue at her horse, waiting, watching. No one’s in the mood to babysit.

It’s early. The kind of early where dawn is less of a sunrise and more of a slow bruise spreading across the sky—everything bathed in washed-out blue, straining your eyes as shadows blur into trees. Cold still clings stubbornly to every surface, frost crystallized like tiny knives, untouched by any warmth. The sun hasn't risen yet, hasn’t chased away the night's chill. There's nothing but silence and the heavy breath of a world not quite ready to wake.

“We’re tracking sightings. Last report clocked it two clicks west.”

“Sightings of what ?” Your voice frays at the edges, a brittle whisper splintering under the intensity of their stares. Mia exhales sharply, irritation like rust flaking from her tone—as if the truth should’ve been etched beneath your skin by now. Like staying two steps ahead means nothing when the world moves at a breakneck pace, miles beyond your reach.

“Sightings of infected. What else would it be?” Mia’s voice slaps through the air.

You shrink inward, heart coiling tight. Pressing your heels firmly into your horse’s flank, you ride ahead, shoulders squared in a counterfeit show of confidence. Pretending the answer had always been yours, just waiting to spill from your lips.

The two veteran patrol officers hang back, shadows at your heels, eyes sweeping the terrain with a practiced kind of wariness. Maria’s coat—borrowed in a rush—drapes off your frame a size too large. It swallows you whole, the dark blue fabric stiff with dirt and wear, smelling faintly of her home.

Your breath clouds the air in short, rapid puffs as you shift your weight on the saddle, reaching back to sling your rifle forward. Your fingers curl stiffly around cold metal, and the butt of the rifle presses solidly into the meat of your shoulder. The sensation feels foreign, wrong somehow—like you weren't in your own skin. You wonder vaguely if you're even a good shot if you could recall ever pulling a trigger with intention. But the tremble in your hands tells you the answer clearly enough.

You know things, sure—you survived alone, stumbling blindly through the desolate winter mountains of Wyoming, your memory blanketed by white storms and stinging winds. 

You know the pain of hunger, the phantom ache of frostbitten toes, and the hope sparked by the distant smudge of Jackson’s chimney smoke. But those were solitary lessons, instincts carved from desperation, not from training. Now, nearly three months later, you still don’t know what kept you going. Stubbornness, maybe. 

This—this patrol, this rifle that isn’t yours, the silent nod from Maria as you passed through Jackson’s gates—this is something else. This is some kind of test. A reckoning. For Maria and Tommy to finally gauge you, to figure out if the pieces that survived were worth the ones you lost.

Maria swore you’d take to patrol life like breathing.

But breathing hasn’t been easy in a long time.

Yet here you are, trembling so hard it feels seismic, like maybe they can feel it all the way back in Jackson. 

The woods are dim, bathed in light that blurs lines between shadow and substance, reality and nightmare. Your eyes burn, fixed on the trees that stretch tall and silent, sentinel-like, mocking your fear. Then—a ripple. A shift of darkness cutting swiftly between trunks, too purposeful to be wind, too human-shaped to be imagined. Your heartbeat pounds in your throat, the taste of metal sharp on your tongue, as your finger curls instinctively around the trigger.

The rifle fires violently, kicking back with a force that jars your teeth. The crack of the shot echoes brutally through the air, splintering the quiet of the morning. Breath heaving, you squint through the haze of gun smoke, certainty fading fast. The trees stare back, empty and unmoving. The shadows have dissolved, leaving nothing behind but the lingering dread of your mind playing tricks—the cruel memory of something that was never there at all.

Your horse jolts beneath you—hooves skittering for a beat, ears pinned back. You barely keep your seat as the rifle slips from your grasp, tumbling awkwardly onto the moss-covered earth between your horse’s hooves. Heart hammering, eyes scanning wildly—you realize there's nothing there. Nothing but shadows, whispers of ghosts you’ve conjured from your own unsteady mind.

You look back, cheeks burning, blood rising to the peaks of your ears. Your eyes shift from Mia, who looks away, then to Samuel, whose hands are on the horn of his saddle. 

“I—I swear I saw something,” you say, swallowing hard. The words hang there, but the look on Samuel’s face makes it clear—he doesn’t believe you.

“There’s nothing there,” Mia mutters, her tone brittle despite the attempt at patience. Beneath her knit beanie, strands of dark hair cling to her cheeks, curling in the wind like frayed wire. The breeze cuts past you both, sharp against your already chapped skin.

“I thought I heard something,” you add, quieter this time, but no one’s listening.

“You’re wasting ammo—” Mia starts, a scoff already rising, but Samuel cuts in.

“Mia—”

“No.” Her voice sharpens. “Ever since the horde, we’ve had to count every goddamn bullet. And now she shows up, firing into nothing?” She scoffs again, louder. “And I’m supposed to stay quiet about that?”

“It’s part of learnin’,” Samuel mutters, the sigh that follows nearly swallowed by the wind howling through the trees.

“She’s not gonna learn a damn thing—girl can’t even remember how to tie her laces, much less shoot fuckin’ infected.” Mia snaps, throwing him a look like she can’t believe he’s serious.

He gives her a glance—slow, measured—the kind of look only an elder gives when silence speaks louder than scolding. 

“That’s enough.” His eyes cut to you, and something in his expression softens. You’ve gone quiet again, that same far-off, despondent look on your face you wore the day you stumbled into Jackson. You try to mask it—clear your throat, shift your weight on the leather saddle—but the silence says more than you'd like.

“Whatever.” Mia grits the word through clenched teeth, her jaw ticking. She clicks her tongue, nudging her bay-colored horse forward with a harsh tug of the reins.

You dismount stiffly, boots crunching against the crust of old snow. Kneeling, you fumble for the rifle in the slurry, wincing as the cold bites your fingers.

“You need to pay attention,” Samuel says, riding closer, watching you like a man watching a fault line. “Out here, the shadows play tricks on you... and we can’t afford mistakes.”

He watches as you mount again, wrong foot in the stirrup, his sigh deeper this time.

“I’m trying,” you say, voice low, hoarse with frustration. The day has barely begun, and already, it feels like you’ve lost.

“Not hard enough,” Samuel mutters, voice flat, lost of all color. “You, of all people, should know how to survive out here.”

He pauses, eyes scanning the treeline, always aware of his surroundings. “These things… they don’t ask questions or permission. They just rip your damn throat out.”

Samuel shakes his head, like the memory of it—Jackson cracked open—has just caught up to him. To remind him of the wall breached. The flood of infected. The ones too slow to run, too weak to fight. A few wisps of hair fall into his face, but he doesn’t brush them away.

“I know you’ve seen it,” he says, voice low, chin tilting low. “You know what it’s like.”

Your mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out. You simply gaze up at him with wide eyes and watch as he sits straighter in his saddle, reins tightening between his leather-gloved fingers. 

His eyes flick to yours—sharp, though not unkind. “But knowing it and surviving it again? Not the same thing.”

A rough hum stirs—not quite a word, just a quiet clearing of his throat.

“I ain’t babysitting you,” he says, voice stern. “Get on your horse.”

You’d been there—barely settled, barely known, standing numb amidst faces you couldn’t name. People you owed nothing, yet watched them crumble anyway. The death of the bitten, the air sour with burned flesh clinging to your hair for days. The sound of someone breathing just long enough to beg. You’d stood still, feet rooted in someone else’s blood, as this unfamiliar town came apart around you. 

You couldn’t begin to imagine his pain—the loss of his patrol partner, the one forced to put a bullet through a neighbor’s skull. There hadn’t been time to grieve. Not when survival pressed in from all sides, not when the walls had been torn open like a ribcage. The damage needed mending before any heart could.

It doesn’t take you long to follow—to stay quiet, to listen, to watch as dawn bleeds into early afternoon. You patrol routes that mean nothing to you, unnamed turns and unmarked ridges, but Mia and Samuel move through them like clockwork. They speak in shorthand, gestures you don’t yet understand, and though no one says it, you know your presence slowed them down. Cost them ease. Cost them trust. You try not to trip over your own steps. You try not to be a liability.

The early spring sun does its best to warm the earth, coaxing thin trails of snowmelt, but the wind cuts through your coat like it knows how little you belong to this place. Mud clings to your boots. The wind chaps your lips. And still, you ride.

By the time the sun reaches its highest point, your knees are throbbing, and your fingers ache from gripping the reins. The walls of Jackson appear on the horizon—splintered wood and rusted steel, patched in places, buckling in others. The gates grind open at your approach with a mechanical groan that somehow sounds tired, too.

No one cheers when you return. There are no warm, familiar faces waiting. Just a few posted guards who glance over your group with a nod before turning away. You don’t blame them. You’re not a hero returning—you’re just a body that made it back. And who were you to them? Just another mouth to feed.

The moment you pass through the gates, Samuel swings down from his horse with a grunt, feet hitting the ground with a thud. Mia dismounts, quieter but stiff all the same. You slide from your saddle, knees buckling slightly as your feet hit the muddy ground. 

Samuel and Mia are already leading their horses toward the stables with the exhausted silence of a shift done but not forgotten. You grab the reins, already following suit, but Samuel pauses briefly, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Maria’ll be by,” Samuel says, voice edged with exhaustion—and something else, softer, like pity he doesn’t have the energy to hide. “Said she wanted a word.”

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the red-stained mouth of the stables, boots fading into the muffled shuffle of hooves and straw and murmurs. Just like that, you’re alone again.

You stand at the threshold, half in the shadows, half in the bright light of the afternoon, watching your horse shift beneath its saddle. Its coat is still damp from the ride, flanks trembling in slow waves. You reach for it—palm to velvet muzzle—and it exhales against your fingers, hot and forgiving.

“I know,” you whisper, voice rough from the cold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your words make her ears pin back momentarily before flicking forward again, dismissing you—like she, too, had better things to worry about.

You feel...embarrassed. Not just for failing—you've accepted failure as inevitable—but because every stumble reminds you how much you still need. Like a child, friendless, aimless, sitting alone in the mess hall. You feel helpless, able-bodied yet unwanted, offering aid that no one seems to need. And you knew they needed it, just...not from you.

You remember the bar—your disastrous first night, dropping an entire crate of ale and watching half the night’s supply foam across the floor. Then, the mess hall, mixing sugar into the stew instead of salt. Everywhere you turn, your effort curdles into something worse than useless. Maria never says it outright, but you know this job wasn't her first choice. Maybe her last, but you won't push for the truth. You can sense it in the tired slope of her shoulders, in the way she offers you careful smiles. You've been sleeping in her basement, curled up on an old couch in the corner, unable to bring yourself to fill a room left vacant by someone taken by the horde.

A sharp wind slips past the barn’s beams, scraping against your bare knees and tossing strands of hair across your vision. From here, you can hear the hum of Jackson: distant voices, the rhythmic clang of tools reinforcing the wall, the barking of a dog somewhere near the fencing—the sounds of people determinedly living.

Maria walks toward you, slow and unhurried, her voice carrying in even tones as she greets the people she passes. Fresh out of ideas, out of ways to make you useful. You’re not sure whether you're relieved or exhausted by being passed around from task to task—like a knife too dull to cut yet too sturdy to discard.

“Need help?” She asks, oblivious to the way your day went to shit from the very beginning. It’s not a question, though. Not really. It's the kind of offer that leaves no room for an answer other than yes. But nonetheless, it’s sincere because, with Maria, kindness isn’t a performance. It’s a responsibility. And she wears it like she wears everything else—well, and without complaint.

“Yeah, thank you,” you reply, swallowing the nerves. Would they kick you out of Jackson? Would she tell you softly, gently, grabbing your hand while she decides there’s no real use for you? And there needed to be in Jackson; you needed a role; otherwise, you were useless. 

The air inside the barn is warmer, heavy with the smell of hay, sweat, manure, and old leather. Dust floats in the beams of light slicing through the high windows. Twenty stalls line the barn, ten on each side of a wide central aisle. Some stand empty, their occupants still out on patrol.

You walk past worn stall doors, each with a nameplate carved or burned into the wood— Gracie, Buckshot, Japan —until you find yours.

Penny.

Maybe that’s why she’d bucked you off; you hadn’t even learned her name before riding her. 

Her name is etched into the top beam, the letters dulled from years of weather and handling. You lead Penny into the center aisle and tie her off near her stall, swapping the bridle for her halter with practiced hands. The bit clinks as you ease it from her mouth. She exhales through her nose, grateful, like she’d been holding her breath all day.

Her tack is still warm from the ride—saddle leather creaking as you uncinch the girth and lift the weight from her back. She shifts her weight, patient but eager. You start to move it, but Maria steps in, lifting it off your hands and carrying it to the nearest stand, the wood scorched with her initials.

The stall’s tight—enough space for her, for you, and barely for Maria—but the mare doesn’t seem to mind. She shifts, ears flicking in recognition, and you reach up to rest a hand against her neck, grounding yourself in her steady warmth.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” you start, both of you brushing each side of Penny’s flank, your strokes falling into a rhythm like you’ve done this a hundred times.

“Oh yeah?” Maria says from the other side of the stall. “And how would you know that?”

“Because today was…” You pause and exhale. “Worse than horrible.” The words come out fast, like a rip of Velcro—just to get it over with.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Her tone is light like she’s halfway smiling. She says it like she was waiting for you to say precisely that. Like she knew .

“I can,” you mutter, a little too quick. “And… I’d get it if they didn’t want me on patrol again.”

You glance sideways, hoping Mia and Samuel in the next stalls aren’t listening. The last thing you need is false pity from people who couldn’t give two fucks about you. 

“I get it,” you say again, quieter this time. “They probably think I’m a liability. I fell, Maria. Like a kid. My knee popped and everything. I sounded like a glow stick getting stepped on.” you motion towards your knees, and she places a hand on her hip like she’d already seen them. 

Maria snorts softly. “You’ve got some colorful ways of telling stories; I’ll give you that.”

“It’s not a story. It’s just sad.”

“Mm. Well,” she says, pausing to flick a bit of hay off her sleeve, “if we kicked everyone off patrol for falling, we wouldn’t have anyone left.”

You shake your head. “But it was bad. I froze up, and I dropped my rifle. I thought I saw something in the trees and just—” You trail off, the heat of embarrassment rising again. “Samuel had to step in. He could’ve gotten hurt, all because I'm seeing shadows.”

Maria doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She finishes brushing Penny’s back with deliberate care before she says, “You were scared.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s the ones who aren’t scared that get reckless. That forget the stakes. Fear keeps you sharp—at least when you don’t let it own you.”

She steps forward, petting Penny, standing in front of you. Not towering, not lecturing—just there. Steady as a fencepost.

“You fell. You got up. You finished the patrol. You didn’t quit. That’s what I care about.”

Maria unlatches the gate and swings it open with a practiced hand. The stalls lead out into the paddock—a fenced stretch of packed dirt and stubborn, patchy grass. Not enough room for a gallop, but enough to move. Enough to feel free.

Penny trots forward, hooves dull against the earth, and dips her head to slurp noisily from the water basin.

“I’m not sure I’ll get better,” you admit, voice low. Maria’s words land, but they don’t quite take root. You know it could’ve been worse—no one died, you’re still standing. But that doesn’t stop the feeling. Every second of it clings to you, damp and heavy, like wet wool across your skin. 

You’ll get someone killed eventually.

The little voice nags at you, crawling up your neck, creeping through your thoughts as you think of the ways it’ll happen. 

Maria doesn’t answer right away. Just leans against the stall door, arms crossed, watching one of the horses chew slowly on old hay. Her expression is hard to read—but you try anyway. It’s a look of calm patience, of calculation, of someone who might just know all the answers. 

“You weren’t sent out there to be perfect,” she says finally. “Just to come back.”

The words are kind, but they skim right off you. You’re not sure they’re meant for someone like you anyway. So you don’t respond just yet, eyes wandering around the room before landing on her. Somewhere in the barn, a horse nudges at a salt lick loudly. 

Maria watches you for another long second. You can feel her weighing something.

Then, simply: “Come on. I got something to show you.”

“A new assignment?” you ask, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

She shrugs. “Sort of. Call it a shift in direction.”

You follow her out into the sunlight—thin and bright but not warm. The snow on the edges of the path is melting in slow drips, making little rivulets through the mud. Your boots squelch as you walk. The breeze cuts low and sharp, tugging at the hem of your coat, but you keep pace.

Maria doesn’t say where you’re going. She doesn’t need to. There's no urgency in her stride, just quiet purpose. And though your chest still aches, still carries the damp weight of failure and that voice that whispers you're only here because someone else isn't.

For now, you walk in silence. Letting her lead. Letting the sun try and fail to warm your back. 

Maria pauses outside the dining hall, holding the door open for you. You scrape the mud carefully from your boots before stepping inside, the warmth hitting you instantly. Only a few people linger at the tables, their conversations muted and comfortable as they wait for lunch. When the door shuts behind Maria, heads turn—expressions softening into quiet smiles at her presence but shifting into something guarded, uncertain when they reach you. Just wary, more curious than hostile. 

They don’t distrust you, exactly; they simply don’t know you yet, and their cautious glances remind you how unfamiliar your face still is. You duck your head, the heat prickling across your cheeks as their hushed voices resume behind you, the quiet hum filling the empty space between acceptance and suspicion.

“We’re having lunch?” you ask, following Maria past the tables and toward a narrow set of stairs tucked behind the hall’s far wall.

“Not yet,” she says, glancing back at you with a faint smile, taking a few steps ahead. “Though you could probably use it.”

You don’t argue. Hunger's dulled to a background ache—a hum beneath your ribs. You’re too distracted by the weight of eyes behind you; the air shifts when Maria passes, only to still when you trail after.

She notices, of course. Maria always notices.

“They’ll come around,” she says, voices low as she reaches the top of the stairs. “Just curious, is all; we’ve all been through a lot in such little time.” 

You hesitate at the top step, hand brushing the banister.

“I don’t need them to like me,” you say stubbornly.

“I didn’t say they had to,” she replies over her shoulder in the way casual way she holds so easily. “But I do want you to feel like you belong here. That doesn’t happen overnight.”

The floorboards creak beneath your boots as you overlook the expanse of the hall. You’re not sure what you’re doing up here—but Maria stops outside a heavy wooden door and pulls out a key.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says, sliding it into the lock, stopping momentarily to look at your curious eyes. “That couch can’t be comfortable, and with Benjamin runnin’ around upstairs causin’ a ruckus, thought I’d take on a project,” 

The door swings open with a soft groan, revealing a small space with wood-paneled walls. A twin bed tucked in one corner, a desk in the other with a chair. A single window looking out over the main street, its glass a little smudged, curtain half-drawn. It smells like whatever is cooking downstairs, but for some reason, it feels warm, even with the cool breeze pushing past the curtains. There’s a small dresser drawer beneath the window and a door past the desk. 

“Was an old office, then used to be storage, got overrun with files stacked to the ceiling. Felt like a good time to clear it out finally,” she walks in, places her hands on her full hips as she gives a little spin to admire her work. 

“You didn’t have to go through all the trouble,” you murmur, lingering at the threshold. You don't step in yet. Not just because you're muddy—because stepping in might make it real.

“It’s not much,” she says, lifting her arms up before slapping them down against her sides, “But it’s yours. And it’s got a bathroom,” she steps forward and opens the door beside the desk. It’s true, a small but full-sized bathroom tucked into the tiny space. 

What did I do to deserve this? You think, harder on yourself than need be. 

And like she’d heard your inner monologue, Maria speaks up, “Surviving what you did means something,” she says. “You belong in Jackson as much as the next person, just haven’t been given the right tools yet.”

You step inside, finally, the floor squeaking faintly beneath your boots. Light filters in through a high window, casting soft streaks across the dust that still lingers. Maria dusts off the desk with her sleeve—again, like she hadn’t already done it twice. Like she hadn’t carved out time, she didn’t have to make this space yours.

“I don’t do pity projects,” she adds casually—so casual it lands like a fact rather than comfort. “It was my decision to do this.” You hadn’t even realized your shoulders were tense until she spoke. And maybe her words should help. Maybe it should. 

“I didn’t say anything,” you reply, voice tight, masking the nerves with an awkward laugh.

She shrugs, one shoulder lifting like it costs her nothing. “Didn’t have to.”

You stand in the center of the room, turning slowly like the walls might change if you give them long enough. Your shoulders curl inward—instinct or habit, you’re not sure.

A warm hand finds your shoulder. Brief, grounding, like she’s pulling you back into yourself. Then it’s gone, the warmth replaced by the cold.  

“I’ll let you settle in,” she says, already half out the door. “Lunch is in an hour. Eat something.”

The key lands on the desk with a soft metallic thud as she passes it. She pauses, feet on the threshold.

“You’re on patrol tomorrow. Don’t make me come looking.”

Her footsteps fade down the stairwell, each step softer, lighter, dissolving into echoes you strain to hold on to. Silence rushes back in, reverent, tentative like it's afraid to disturb something sacred left behind. You’re alone again, breathing slowly, carefully, as if the walls themselves might shatter at the wrong thought.

But your fingers brush something precious, something holy: the fragile ember of a promise she left glowing in the darkness. It feels like grace—unearned, uncertain, but yours.

For now, that's enough. It has to be.

Chapter Text

You sleep on top of the flannel sheets, the desk chair wedged beneath the doorknob, as if that could keep anything out. For hours, you lie awake, watching silver ribbons of moonlight slip through the curtains and unfurl across the room like smoke. The streets outside are a graveyard of silence—so absolute it presses against your skull, keeps you wired until your body gives in out of sheer exhaustion. 

You weren’t afraid of anything specific. It wasn’t the dark, or anything that lurked in it. Wasn’t the cold, or even death. It was the kind of fear that sat quiet and coiled, that would spring to life when you least expected. Maybe it was because this was the first time you’d been truly alone since arriving in Jackson. Perhaps it was the thought that you’d stay that way. That your mind, unshared, unspoken, might be too heavy to carry on your own. 

And that is why you couldn’t crawl in the sheets. Because making it real—this bed, this room, this borrowed life that fits like someone else’s skin—makes it that much scarier to lose. You haven’t touched the dresser since the first time, when you opened it and found it hollow, save for a pair of socks, a shirt, and some pants. It felt like a setup. Like the punchline to a joke no one warned you about. Like at any second, someone would throw open the door and say just kidding—none of this was ever yours.

So you sleep in your clothes, curled up tight, knees tucked to your chest, picking at the torn skin around your kneecaps. Sleep, when it comes, is thin and threadbare—no dreams, just a brief mercy from the noise inside your head. From the constant replay of what you can recall, any details of how you ended up here.

When your eyes finally open, the sky outside is blue-grey, early light bleeding through the cracks. Then—the clang of a bell. Loud and metallic, splitting through the sleepy quiet. A sign that it is half past five.

You rise slowly, legs swinging over the edge of the cot until your feet meet the cold bite of the floor. The air is still, heavy with morning silence. You pad across the room, socked feet making no sound, and lace your boots tight—tight enough to hold you together. You flex your toes in your boots, the new wool itches, but it’s warm enough. You move the chair from beneath the doorknob, careful, quiet, like someone might catch you leaving. 

The mess hall greets you in a warmth of hush tones as you descend the stairs. Empty benches. Muffled clatter from the kitchen, the ghost of something burnt in the air. A few familiar faces pass through the doors with half-slept eyes. You imagine you appear the same to them.

You debate briefly whether to risk breakfast, weighing hollow hunger against the bitter pang of nausea. Hunger wins in the end. You shove the doors of the mess hall open and step into the biting embrace of cold. The air strikes sharp and unforgiving, piercing deeper than any caffeine jolt could manage, burning at your eyelids, saturating your bones with an icy ache. Your boots crunch softly over fresh snowfall, destined to degrade into grimy slush by midday. 

Streetlights flicker to life, dangling bulbs sparking awake as if responding to your presence. You pull your jacket tighter around your body, warding off the chill creeping along your spine as the material of your clothes scrapes against the goosebumps. 

Slipping into the stables, you latch the heavy door behind you, sealing in warmth and the earthy scent of hay and horses. The air inside buzzes unexpectedly with activity—patrols shuffle and whisper, finishing shifts, starting new ones, their voices low and serious beneath the muted creak of leather and shuffle of hooves.

With eyes downcast, you swiftly move to Penny’s stall. She peers eagerly over the wooden gate, snorting softly in greeting. Warm breath blooms against your icy fingers as you reach out, the gentle nudge of her velvet nose a rare comfort against the starkness of your morning.

“Good morning,” you rasp quietly, your throat scratchy, voice raw from disuse. “I know, it’s too early,” You mutter, more to yourself than her. 

You brush past her stall and saddle her for the day. You gather her heavy reins in your palm, abruptly pausing when something catches the corner of your eye. Black gloves rest neatly atop the worn saddle, palms open skyward, like a whispered offer, left without a note or explanation.

You hesitate, glancing cautiously over your shoulder, searching for the shadow who placed them there. Still, the stables are quiet—save for the movement of others.

They fit perfectly as you slip them on, buttery leather molding to your hands, gripping tight as you flex them into fists. You make a mental note to thank Maria, though the word thank you feels paper-thin compared to everything she’s given you.

Penny snorts softly as you saddle her, the warmth of her flanks a brief comfort before you lead her into the biting air. Cold snaps at your skin like a feral animal, stinging your cheeks as Penny's breath clouds thick around her muzzle. Outside, Mia and Samuel sit sentry on their horses, silhouettes carved from steel against the washed-out morning.

Your boot finds the stirrup, leather groaning beneath your weight as you haul yourself into the saddle. The three of you gather near the patrol commander for this morning, breath ghosting in the dawn light. Jesse stands at the wall, rifle slung across his chest, posture squared with authority that looks a little too practiced for such a young man.

“Alright, patrol three,” he starts, voice rough from sleep or maybe too many mornings like this one. “Hope you had your coffee.” A faint smile flickers across his face before dying off when no one cracks a smile at his attempt at a joke. 

He clears his throat, more out of habit than need. “North ridge today. Out by Hoback. Keep it tight. Eyes open. Come back in one piece.”

He nods once, and that’s it—dismissal without ceremony as the gate groans open. You click your tongue to the horse, and just like that, you're riding into the teeth of morning, into whatever waits past the tree line.

Penny breathes heavily beneath you, each exhale stirring the quiet air as you ride alongside Samuel. Today, his face seems etched deeper by the shadows, weariness carving lines that weren't there yesterday. Ahead, Mia guides the patrol, her silhouette lean and steady against the subdued morning glow. You've deliberately held back today, watching her movements, cataloging the silent language between them—the tilt of a chin, two quick nods, the subtle exchanges of their hidden conversations.

The silence stretches long, nearly unbearable, as your horses pick their way through the overgrown trail toward the vacant houses near Hoback. The monotony of the woods whispers sleep into your bones, and it takes every ounce of discipline you have left not to drift into a restless daze. Patrol is nothing like you imagined; each day brings a shifting uncertainty that officers accept without question, a rhythm of unpredictability you struggle to understand.

Samuel shifts his pack, the worn black fabric rustling softly against his shoulders. His eyes flick toward you, searching your face with quiet intent.

“They fit alright?” he asks, voice gritty, nodding his chin subtly toward your hands gripping the reins.

Your mouth parts, words catching on the edge of your tongue. You were so sure Maria had left them for you—so certain it almost felt like hope. But you were wrong. And now your face is flushing, hot with something you can’t quite name. Embarrassment? Gratitude? That old ache that blooms when someone is kind to you, and you don't know how to carry it?

It burns either way.

Samuel watches you, eyes narrowing against the slow-blooming dawn. The sun climbs behind him like it's got nowhere better to be.

“They fit,” you say, quieter than intended, curling your fingers into a fist as if to prove it.

“Good.” His reply is clipped, already turning back toward the trail, like the moment never happened.

You swallow. You should let it go. You know you’re no good at conversation. But your mouth opens again, unruly thing that it is, and curiosity slips out before you can stop it.

“I can give them back after patrol. Don’t want to take them from someone who needs them,” you say, breath catching. Something so simple, yet in this world, you can sense a shift in him. His mouth tightening, brows knitting together before releasing a breath. 

“No point,” Samuel says, voice low. “Keep ’em.”

“Thank you.” It slips out quieter than you mean it to, nearly lost in the crunch beneath hooves. 

You shouldn’t push. You know better. But something in the way he offered—no hesitation, no barter—curls at the edge of your thoughts.

“You always carry extras?” you ask, not quite looking at him, as if pretending it’s a casual question will make it so.

He glances over, and for a moment, his expression softens—just barely. A flicker, like sunlight catching the edge of a blade.

“Learned to,” he says. Then, surprising you, he goes on, “Lost a finger to frost one winter.” He raises a gloved hand from his thigh. The pinky finger is folded down, empty. 

“Oh,” you say, and it’s stupid, the way your throat tightens. Not because of the story—but because he told it.

Because someone told you something personal, and no one had trusted you enough until now. 

Silence again, drawn long and quiet as the trail. Then, after a long pause:

“They were my wife’s.”

You glance down at your hands—at the gloves, soft and warm, pulled snug around your fingers. Your breath hitches. Your mouth parts before you catch yourself and clamp it shut. Even at the end of the world, where loss is ambient, constant, you still don’t know what to say.

“Infection?” you ask, voice low.

He hesitates.

“Cancer.”

There’s no correct response. So you keep your mouth shut. Samuel doesn’t wait—just clicks his tongue, and nudges his horse ahead toward Mia. You watch his back, wondering if he regrets the gesture, but you stay quiet for the rest of the ride.

That’s how the rest of the patrol goes: you follow, you observe, you keep quiet. There’s no infected on this route—only gutted houses and streets swallowed up by time. They trust you to clear one on your own. You barely manage, your heart hammering loud enough to scare off wildlife.

Later, you ration jerky between the three of you and rest by a stream, where silence hums beneath the trickle of meltwater. When the snow thins out and the sun begins to flirt with spring, you ride back to Jackson. It's warm enough to strip your gloves, so you peel them off and shove them into your pack as the gates come into view.

“You were better today,” Mia says, dismounting and landing softly. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

You mirror her movements, dismounting slowly, feeling the ache in your bones.

In the distance, Samuel's silhouette is already shrinking, swallowed by the stables. At the same time, Jesse secures the gate behind him with a metallic clank.

You nod once, fingers tightening reflexively around Penny’s worn leather reins, feeling her warmth beneath your palm. Handing your walkies back to Jesse, you only half-listen as Mia's voice drifts into a muted hum, giving her clipped debrief with that familiar tone—equal parts exhaustion and authority.

The bell tolls noon as you leave the stables, still dusty from brushing down Penny. The scent of hay and saddle soap clings to your sleeves. You stroll through town, past people who nod or don’t, who know your face or haven’t yet decided.

You're headed toward the hospital, your weekly pilgrimage. Once every seven days—like clockwork, like penance. Dr. Bennett sees you, gentle but persistent with ice-cold hands, charting every flinch, every quiet hesitation as she asks the usual questions. Routine checkups, she calls them, though they feel more like excavations—careful and surgical, all metaphorical scalpels and softly worded questions. Like maybe if she slices gently enough, you’ll remember what led to nearly a week carved clean out of your mind.

Maria says it’s because you’d been out there alone, wandering. That something so traumatic—paired with days without water, without food—must’ve punched holes in your mind, like Swiss cheese. They tell you it’s okay that your memory isn’t trustworthy. Perhaps they're right, but each appointment feels redundant, and you’re unsure if it’s helping or not. 

The bell above the door chimes with its usual worn-out jingle just as you reach for it—right as someone pulls it open from the other side. Instinct shoves you flinching backward, boots scraping against the concrete.

A man stands there, just a little too solid, a little too sun-weathered to ignore as you stand in his way.  Something about him tugs at the frayed edge of your memory—dark eyes shadowed beneath a stern brow, shoulders wide beneath a flannel that’s seen better years, and hair gone storm-gray at the edges.

He says nothing, but shifts aside slowly, holding the door open in a gesture that's almost too deliberate, charged with some unspoken familiarity. His chin dips slightly, but those eyes—they watch, patient and guarded.

“Sorry,” you murmur softly, eyes flickering downward as you slip past, too engrossed in your own tardiness to notice much else. 

Only when the door sighs shut behind you and he melts away into the quiet bustle of the street do you realize, with an odd little twist in your chest, who he is. Tommy’s brother.

You're already late when they usher you into the exam room—open blinds allowing the sunlight in, smelling of something sterile. You barely have time to sit before Dr. Bennett strides in, clipboard in hand, all business this time around.

Her jet-black hair is braided tight, trailing neatly down the back of her white coat. Even in jeans and a blouse, there’s something undeniably polished about her—like the coat doesn’t make her professional, it just confirms it.

“I heard you took a fall,” she says, voice clipped as she presses ice-cold fingers along your wrists, to your neck and beneath your shirt, the stethoscope brushing your ribs.

You flinch. “Jesus. Did the whole damn town see it happen?”

Her mouth twitches—just short of a smile. “Probably.”

You scoff softly, eyes on the wall. “Should’ve charged admission.”

Dr. Bennett’s mouth quirks—not quite a smile, but close. She lets the shirt fall back into place, nodding toward the table. “Lie back.”

You do, stiffly, the paper crinkling beneath you.

“The town talks,” she says, like it’s just weather. Just fact.

“Yeah. No shit.” The words come out harsher than you meant, like broken glass on the tongue. You don’t look at her when you say it, but you feel her fingers pressing into your abdomen.

“Have you menstruated since your last visit?” she asks softly, fingers pressing gently upward, exploring the spots still raw and tender from your fall. You flinch sharply, biting down a hiss of pain, and she pauses, lifting the hem of your shirt to expose the bruise blooming violently purple across your skin.

“No,” you mumble, your voice tight, shame curdling hot in your stomach at your body's betrayal.

She scribbles something quietly in her notes, eyes thoughtful and unreadable. “You’re still underweight,” she says carefully, like each word might bruise you further.

“I figured.” The words come out small.

Dr. Bennett pauses, pen in hand. “You were doing better last month.”

“Things are busier now.” 

She glances at you, something unreadable flickering in her expression. “What changed?”

“Patrol is demanding.” A lie; you’d be on patrol for all of two days. You’d regressed, and it was entirely your fault. 

“You can’t give up.”

“I’m not giving up,” you say, too quickly. “I’m just...”

She waits. Sunlight pours through the slats, lighting her eyes like stained glass—too vivid, too knowing. You look away, the weight of her silence pressing heavier than any question.

“...slow.”

“Have you been eating?”

“Sometimes,” You pause, almost waiting for her to retort as you sit up. 

“That’s not the same as yes.”

“I know.” You hesitate. “It’s hard to, I'm too busy, and it makes me feel...sick.”

She sighs—not annoyed, just sad. “You have to.”

“I know ,” you say again, sharper this time, like you’re mad at yourself for needing the reminder. For making it necessary.

Her voice stays gentle. “Your body can’t recover if you don’t let it.”

You nod slightly, not quite meeting her eyes, your gaze falling to your hands clenched tightly in your lap. She sits in the chair across from you, crossing her legs. 

“And the memory techniques we talked about?” she asks, voice softer still, careful around the edges. “—Have you been doing those?”

You swallow hard, shame mingling with guilt. “Sometimes,” you whisper. “It’s easier not to.”

She nods, slowly as if she isn’t surprised. “I know it feels that way,” she says, patient but firm. “But healing doesn’t come from ease. It comes from confronting the places your mind wants to hide from. I’m not that kind of doctor, but I know that trauma doesn’t rewrite itself—it’ll keep hiding until you face it.”

You stare at the floor like the linoleum might crack open and give you something—an answer, a memory, anything. 

You want to tell her the truth. That some days, you can’t picture your mother’s face. That your childhood feels like a half-remembered dream—stitched together by a brain desperate to make sense of all the empty space. That sudden noises make you sick, and sunlight on linoleum evokes a sense of nostalgia you can't explain. And all of it means nothing if you can't remember. Like the reel has run out of film to play.

You do remember a burning pain, everywhere and nowhere. Blood, and so many voices. You were safe now , they told you in a cacophony of noise.

Still, your childhood bedroom—if it ever existed—feels like a movie set built from someone else’s memories. And deep down, you’re still half-convinced this is all some elaborate psychosis. That none of this is real. Not the town. Not Dr. Bennett. Not even you.

But you don’t tell her; instead, you tuck your words away neatly in your lap. You nod nicely, because you think that’s what you should do. And you tilt your chin higher, as if to appear different, stronger since the beginning of this conversation. 

“I’ll try to remember,” you reply, though you know they’ll slip your mind again.

“I don’t doubt your ability, but you’ve got bruised ribs and a sprained wrist. Might wanna take it easy for a few days.” 

“Maria won’t be happy.” Another lie.

She studies you quietly—eyes soft yet sharp, caught between pity and disbelief. “Maria’s the one who asked me to check on you. I don't think she'd mind if you took a hiatus to look after yourself.”

“Isn’t HIPAA still a thing?” You exhale slowly, trying for humor. 

Her lips twitch, and her smile disappears. “That’s not how it works here.”

You tilt your head.

“You don’t get to decide how much space you take up in someone else’s concern. And Maria cares, even if it’s her job to.” Her voice is gentle but firm, carrying truths you’re not sure you're ready to hold.

You nod as if you understand, as if her words haven't just cracked open something tangled and dark deep within your chest. She tears off a page from her pad, the sound crisp and final, and hands it to you. The instructions feel gentle, delicate—rest orders, staying off your feet. Soft demands that clash against the brutal edges of your mind.

“Try to be kinder to yourself,” she adds quietly, observing as you rise, your movements heavy, unsteady. “You’re not just here to survive anymore.”

It’s not that you don’t believe her. God, you wish you could. But she doesn’t have to live inside your body, hollow and aching, craving rest yet never finding peace. She doesn’t carry the weight of your constant inadequacy, doesn’t live beneath the shadow of hunger and exhaustion, unable to nourish even the smallest part of yourself. All you wanted was to prove you could make it—and yet, even at surviving, you feel you’ve failed. That all of the pain your body went through to keep you alive was for nothing. Trying to fit in was the least you could do, even if it engulfed you.

On your way out of the hospital, you crush the note into your fist and bury it deep inside your coat pocket. You were getting better—maybe not in numbers, but you could sense something was happening. Patrol was your proof; you did better today. Dr. Bennett’s scribbled prescriptions wouldn't derail that progress. Not now. You walk home with your head lowered, squinting in the bright sunlight. 

Maria shows up at your door later that evening, the muffled clatter and laughter from the dining hall leaking through the cracks. Benjamin wriggles loose from her grip and launches himself onto your bed like he’s been waiting all day just for that moment.

“Make yourself at home, Benji,” you tease lightly, arms crossing as you watch from the door beside Maria. He responds by rolling dramatically around the bed, ruining the sheets you didn't have the courage to touch. At least someone would enjoy them.

"This is better than my bed," he grins, a mischievous replica of his two parents. 

Maria gives you one of her knowing looks, eyebrows arching subtly. “Thought we’d all grab dinner,” she says, her tone soft but firm—a mother through and through, wielding suggestions like gentle orders. “Tommy’s down there already.”

“Not sure I have a choice, do I?” you ask, half-smiling as you tug the sleeves of your soft black shirt over your wrists. You noticed there was a draft in the room, though you couldn't place where it was coming from. 

“You really gonna say no to free food?” Maria counters, lips quirking upward. She glances over your shoulder at Benjamin, who’s got one of his toys on your desk. 

“Hey—hands off, kid, that’s definitely not yours,” Maria scolds, extending her hand, effortlessly drawing him back toward her orbit.  “Let’s go. Food’s getting cold.”

You pull the door shut behind you, fingers lingering on the knob for a second longer than necessary. Benjamin doesn’t ask permission—he just slips his hand into yours like he used to, like you never left.

“Do you miss living with us?” he asks, voice dipped in something small and unsure.

You glance down at him, at his wild curls and permanently stained sleeves. “I do,” you say softly, squeezing his hand once. “I miss stealing your socks.”

He grins, wide and gap-toothed. “You said it was the sock monster!”

Maria shoots you a look over her shoulder, the amused kind that says I’m getting those socks back, and you trail her into the dining hall. It’s too loud, too warm, too alive—almost overwhelming. A storm of conversations, boots against wood, and the occasional clang of a ladle. 

Maria leads you to a corner table, and Tommy's already there—elbows on the table, grin in place. He looks up at the three of you as you take your seats. 

“There she is,” he says, pulling a roll from a napkin-lined basket. “Saved ya some before I ate 'em all.” 

You smile, even if it barely registers. The noise around the table cushions your silence, makes it feel less loud. Dinner’s nothing special—protein, vegetable, some kind of grain masquerading as fiber. The rolls are the best part, golden and warm, brushed with sweet butter that clings to your fingers. You bite into one and it almost hurts.

You remember what Dr. Bennett said. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to eat—most days, you were starving. But hunger always came in last; there were more pressing matters. To contribute to Jackson, to find where you belonged. And by the time you noticed the emptiness in your stomach, it was already too late. Too late in the night. Too deep into the day. So you let it wait like everything else.

You wanted to try now. You really are. Trying to listen to your body, trying to be present, trying to make the noise in your head quiet enough that you can hear anything else. But it’s more complicated than you thought. Harder to choose softness when the sharp edges are what kept you alive.

Benjamin’s halfway through his second roll, cheeks ballooned like a chipmunk. Maria tells him to slow down while Tommy launches into a story about a cow chase gone sideways. You’re only half-listening—something about a fence snapping, hooves in the mud, Joel cursing the whole time. They’d spent the entire day out there.

Maria’s gaze drifts toward you, tender but pointed, slicing neatly through the warm hum of conversation. “How'd it go today?”

Caught mid-chew, you wipe your fingers clean on the napkin in your lap. “Patrol was fine—slow, but better.”

“Hey, that’s great!” Tommy says, sincerity brightening his voice.

“When can I do patrol?” Benjamin pipes up, hope shimmering in wide, eager eyes.

“Well,” Tommy leans in conspiratorially, counting exaggeratedly on his fingers. Benji holds his breath. “Got a few more years, bud.”

Maria leans slightly closer, her voice softening to a murmur, sheltered beneath the lively exchange across from you. “And how about Dr. Bennett?”

You pause—half a heartbeat—and give an easy shrug. “Good. Really good.”

She arches an eyebrow gently. “She thinks so?”

You hesitate again, shorter this time but deeper, an invisible tightening in your chest. You spear a roasted carrot with forced casualness, feeling briefly victorious. “Said I'm steady. Nothing to worry about.”

It feels smooth enough to slide by unnoticed.

“That's excellent,” Tommy adds warmly, missing the nuance. “Could always use steady hands out there.”

“Yeah,” you echo, smiling as convincingly as possible, your voice firm, like someone who believes in their own recovery.

“Feels good to get into it.”

But the words catch uncomfortably, snagging like fabric. You're not even sure why you lied—if you'd even call it a lie. Maria could just as easily speak to Dr. Bennett herself—but maybe you're sick of the careful glances, the hushed pity seeping through every interaction. And the thought of disappointing Maria and Tommy yet again twists sharply in your gut, flooding your mouth with a quiet nausea. 

You grab your glass, tipping it back until there’s nothing left but the sharp chill of ice against your lips. You’re desperate for relief—something to rinse away the sour residue of all the lies, pooling thick on your tongue. Or maybe it’s just the food hitting your empty stomach, twisting tight with nausea. 

Conversation spills across the table, a rapid current you strain to follow. The topics shift and swirl faster than you can grasp—too many names, too few faces you recognize. You linger over your plate, hesitant bites taken under patient, watchful eyes.

When the night finally unravels into its end, Benji clings to you in a hug tight enough to bruise, whining softly as he’s coaxed into his coat. Maria and Tommy murmur warm goodbyes, her voice gently reminding you she'd see you soon. You watch their silhouettes shrink with each step, swallowed by the night. When you turn away, the walk back inside feels endless. 

Later, in the emptiness of your room, beneath the hollow hush left by departed voices, you end up in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Fingers cold against the brittle ends of your too-long hair, wondering when you started to look so haunted.

You're not sure what you were hoping to see—maybe courage, forgiveness, or some spark of clarity you've long been chasing—but your reflection stares back, equally uncertain, equally lost, a quiet echo of who you wish you could become. Someone who wanted to be better, but didn’t know where to begin. 

Chapter Text

You wake halfway to the bathroom, caught in a blur of tangled sheets and stumbling feet, your hands groping blindly through the dark. Your stomach churns, threatening rebellion, and by the time your knees hit the icy tile, you're already dry heaving into the toilet. A cold sweat beads at the nape of your neck, your sleep shirt clinging damp against your skin like it, too, is trying to hold you together.

The room spins and swirls as your breathing becomes shallow. You brace your palms against the floor, breathing through the roll of nausea that crashes over you like a wave. Again. And again.

You were dreaming of a room before you were pulled awake. Golden sunlight, ordinary looking, a window overlooking a street. The old apartment you grew up in, maybe. The radiator clicking like it always did in winter.

But then the dream falls apart and the room changes, an overhead light flickering. And there’s that moment again—the moment before Jackson. The nothing . Just a blank space, humming. Static that rings until you’re waking up, already stumbling through your room. 

You manage to stand from the floor, legs trembling like they barely remember how to hold you. The flush of the toilet is automatic, a ghost gesture done without looking. But the shakes stay, rattling through you—from your chest, through your spine, settling deep in your thighs. It stays there, shivering like you’re cold, when in reality, you couldn’t feel anything other than panic. The clammy skin, the numbness in your ears, the jackhammering behind your eyes.

It always begins in sleep. That quiet betrayal. Even dreams aren't a sanctuary, betraying you every other night, whispering terrors into your ear. 

You've done better lately, sure—almost three weeks on patrol, keeping busy, staying distracted—but nights like these remind you how fragile that illusion is. Each dawn arrives with shaky breaths, the ghostly echoes of empty nightmares clinging to your skin as you try, desperately, to convince yourself you're still alive.

Your fingernails carve crescents into your palm until the numbness dwindles, crawling through veins that pulse too fast beneath your skin. Splashing cold water onto your face feels like a baptism, but it's fleeting, the salvation slipping away as quickly as it came. 

Is it possible , you wonder, to panic so violently that your heart just stops? Could that be your fate—surrendering quietly in the stillness before sunrise? You almost envy that escape, if only life would loosen its ruthless grip just a little.

Gradually, the nausea retreats, giving way to sensation returning slowly to your feet, grounding you back into the cold reality of morning. Your hands grip the sink until you're steady enough to stand without support, the porcelain bearing witness to yet another sleepless night.

Your feet are heavier than you remember as you return to your still dark room. But the faintest glow leaks through the window, whispers that morning is close. You move vacantly, pulling on layers, tugging on your boots, and grabbing your pack from the floor. 

You've taken to showing up at the stables early. Not for the work, though that's the excuse you repeat, but because this is just how your mornings unfold now. A quiet kind of ritual. The cold air helps with the aftermath of your panic, brushing Penny down, running your fingers through her mane, it gives your thoughts somewhere else to go.

Just for a little while. Just enough time to untangle the mess in your head before patrol starts.

You pause, drinking in the quiet emptiness of the street. In the distance, along the perimeter wall, the overnight patrol shuffles through their familiar choreography, readying for the morning shift change. Late May has softened the harshness of winter, with only the dawn clinging stubbornly to the chill. Your breath clouds visibly, dissolving like whispered secrets into the crisp air.

The snow has vanished, replaced by golden afternoons so bright and clear they tease you into stripping down to nothing but thin sleeves. But today feels different—the sky bruised with heavy clouds rolling in lush waves from the east, promising storms instead of sunshine.

Light pours from the stable doors, spilling out in soft, hazy strokes that beckon you forward like a moth to flame. As you cross the threshold, warmth envelops you instantly. You shed your coat willingly, hooking it gently at the stable’s entrance before your feet guide you instinctively toward Penny’s stall.

Penny waits patiently, her chestnut head already extended from her stall. She nickers softly—a warm puff of air brushing your palm—and you smile, tension easing slightly from your shoulders. Your fingers glide gently along the velvet softness of her nose, tracing the familiar path up to the warm spot just between her eyes.

“Good morning, sweet girl,” you murmur affectionately. Her eyes, large and soulful, seem to search your own like she'd reply if she could. 

“It’s gonna be a long day, huh?” You whisper, more to yourself than to her, as she bumps your arm. 

"Still holding a grudge, huh?" You crack a slight smile, joking about the time you’d failed to brush her one weary dawn. "Guess I deserved that one." 

Penny presses closer, attentive ears twitching as she absorbs your quiet conversation. But then, her gaze flicks past you, ears swiveling forward, abruptly alert. Your heart jolts—like a startled animal—at the realization that you’re not alone after all. The quiet you've been cradling shatters under the weight of her sudden gaze, and for a moment, all you can hear is the thrum of your own pulse.

A chill prickles your spine, muscles tightening instinctively as you turn. Penny’s comforting warmth fades into something uncaring and forgotten. Across the aisle, the stall opposite hers is empty of a horse but not of presence. 

Someone’s crouched there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, thick forearms tense and solid in the muted glow. Tools scatter around his boots, proof he’s been here a while, quietly existing outside the edges of your awareness. Your breath stalls in your throat.

He straightens slowly, deliberately, stepping fully into the dusty spill of stable lights. Recognition hits like a soft punch beneath your ribs, and your breath frees in a sigh. Tommy’s brother, Joel. 

Always a figure glimpsed from afar, his name filtered through hushed conversations—Maria’s mentions, Tommy’s jokes, Benji’s casual chatter about his favorite uncle. His name scribbled on the patrol roster above yours. You vaguely recall him holding a door for you once, eyes briefly meeting yours, steady but fleeting, before he retreated into his careful solitude again. A ghost on the edges of your life.

Now he stands across from you, bathed in the stable’s soft amber glow. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even glance in your direction. Still, you feel it—feel him—the acute awareness radiating from every rigid line of his shoulders.

You swallow, words forming and crumbling silently in your mouth. Something compels you forward, but the wariness keeps you rooted, awkward and uncertain.

Finally, your voice breaks free, tentative but clear. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”

It feels inadequate, small. You always seem to be apologizing around him, even when there’s no apparent fault. Like your presence itself might need excusing.

Joel turns—just slightly, just enough for his gaze to catch on yours. His eyes are dark from here, like earth still damp from rain. They linger for a moment before drifting away again, like whatever he saw wasn’t worth pulling him from his job.

“Weren’t botherin’ me,” he murmurs, low and gravel-edged, voice worn from the morning. A tone that's neither comforting nor dismissive. Something uncertain lingers in the space between you, as his eyes flicker back to you. Like he, too, is curious for the words you haven’t yet said, lingering to see what you’ll make of the silence.

“You always fix things before dawn?” Your voice is gentle as you step closer, testing the stillness between you like the surface of water.

Joel pauses, glancing sidelong at you. He grabs a rag from the stall door, wipes his palms clean, and tosses it toward his scattered tools on the ground.

“Quieter ’round this time. Less distractions. Fewer people to work around."

You nod slowly, feeling a little pinch of embarrassment, as though his words are a subtle rebuke for disturbing him. But something stubborn roots you there, captivated by the simple fact that you're finally hearing his voice—not secondhand in passing conversation—but directly, warmly rough yet velvety gentle.

“What are you fixing?” you ask, leaning forward slightly as if proximity alone could help you glimpse whatever he's working on.

He squats back down again, motioning vaguely at something beyond your line of sight along the wall. “Central lighting. ’M tryin’ to rewire this chewed up mess.” He sighs, a quiet rise and fall of his broad shoulders that betrays a weariness more profound than just faulty wiring.

You shift your position instinctively, trying to catch a better glimpse of him, all broad angles softened by the half-shadows of the stable. For a moment, you forget yourself—staring perhaps a second too long at the strong line of his thigh, the way tension coils visibly beneath wide forearms.

You didn’t know what made you delay longer than you should’ve—whether it was Joel, or the way he worked in that stall, all quiet focus, like the weight of the world could be sorted through the wiring. Curiosity tugged at you, stubborn and strange.

Only now do you register the difference: the stables seem brighter, the shadows less dense, the corners more illuminated and welcoming. Joel’s handiwork was invisible and unnoticed by you until now.

“Sounds…difficult,” you finally say, voice careful but inquisitive, an offer of acknowledgment rather than pity.

His hands pause again, knuckles whitening around the tool he's gripping. Slowly—reluctantly, almost—he tilts his head, just enough to look at you thoroughly. Dark eyes, sharper than you'd imagined, pin you in place. For a heartbeat, there's nothing else—just the faint flicker of curiosity beneath that guarded gaze.

“Not the worst job I’ve had,” he murmurs at last, the low rasp of his voice filling the space between you, each gruff syllable drawing your focus tighter. You wonder if he knows how compelling he is, even in the silence—especially in the silence. 

Before you can say anything back—before you can even decide what it is you want to say—the stable doors creak open with a clang that breaks the spell.

The overnight patrol filters in, boots heavy, voices low. They’re already talking about the storm, something they saw near the edge of the fence line. A routine morning. Just like every other.

You glance back—but Joel’s already turned away, wire cutter in hand, back to whatever he was fixing. Like the conversation never happened. Still, you’d never really heard him speak before—not like that. And now that you had, you found yourself curious. Just curious. Like maybe there was more there than you thought.

So you turn, too, back to Penny, who’s waiting expectantly for you to saddle her. 

___

The clouds have deepened their somber hues, heavy and restless, refusing to break or drift off during the first half of your patrol. They haven’t let up once since you left Jackson—pressing low against the valley like a warning held in the sky. Jesse had said it would pass, swore the storm would skirt around, muttering something about the valley acting like a dome, wind direction, pressure—words you tuned out halfway through. 

All you caught clearly was Pine Crossing and a warning: the river would likely run high.

But Jesse was wrong. By the time your group reaches the bridge, drizzle has swelled to a steady, insistent rain, droplets stinging your cheeks. Below, the water surges angrily, swirling nearly a foot higher than you’ve ever seen on this route. 

Samuel reins in his horse sharply, the animal snorting uneasily. “We should turn back—the bridge ain’t gonna hold like this.”

“If we turn back now, we’re running straight into the worst of it,” Mia calls out, voice pitched against the rising roar of the river. “We push forward. Find high ground. Wait it out.”

Your eyes flick upward to the swirling clouds, something uneasy crawling along your spine. A twist in your stomach makes you grip your reins tighter, and you know it’s not hunger—this gnawing feels different, like instinct tapping softly against your sleeve. 

Samuel’s tone hardens like the weather around you. “Helluva idea. That’s a goddamn death wish, Mia.”

“We leave the horses and cross—it’ll hold,” she insists, confidence fraying at the edges as her dark brows arch and knit back together.

“That bridge is sittin’ a breath above flood level. You’re gambling with all our lives.” Samuel doesn’t hide his disdain. 

Mia turns, jaw set. Her expression flickers—uncertainty for half a second, then gone. “I’m not asking for your approval. I’m leading today, Samuel.” Her voice is a sharp blade. “This isn’t a democracy.”

He scoffs, rough and low. “You know that don’t mean shit.”

She doesn’t blink. “Then follow or stay behind. But don’t slow me down with your second-guessing.”

Mia calls the shots as leader, and there's no negotiating with authority carved from necessity. You could stay back—bet on luck and your own two hands, but storms aren't merciful. And three is better than one when the wild things come crawling out from behind the veil of rain.

“I’ll go first,” Samuel announces, shouldering responsibility as if bravery alone could ward off disaster. He steps onto the first wooden plank, rotted edges protesting beneath his weight. Each careful footfall is a whispered prayer, hands out to balance himself. When he reaches the opposite side, his shoulders ease—a barely perceptible release of tension before turning around. 

“Steady enough,” he calls, motioning with a controlled sweep of his hand. But his eyes fix on you, revealing a flicker of worry he won’t speak aloud.

You dismount, Penny, legs heavier with each step toward the bridge. Fuck , echoes in your mind like a heartbeat, matching the rhythm of rushing water below. Through gaps between planks, dark currents churn hungrily, bubbling upwards as though trying to taste your fear. The bridge groans faintly beneath your first tentative step, an eerie whisper of thunder rolling through. 

And then, behind you, you hear it. A sound beneath the storm, just soft enough to be doubted. Guttural and wet. A screech in the distance. 

Samuel looks into the stretch behind you, stiffens, but keeps a calm voice as he ushers you forward with open palms. “Keep comin’ slowly, don’t look back,”

But you do. “Shit.” You walk forward, but the bridge complains, rocking softly, wood beneath your boots softening.  

You whip your head toward the treeline, just as they break it—three of them, maybe four, tangled in brush and rage, slipping in the mud but gaining speed. And it’s like the storm goes quiet in your head, just for a moment, making space for the primal instinct to kick in. 

“Look at me, c’mon sweetheart, keep walking,” Samuel’s voice seeps over the rain, coaxing some of the fear. 

Mia’s eyes go wide. “ No —no,—We don’t have time, fuck this—”

“Mia, wait—!” Samuel shouts, reaching as if he could stop it. 

But she’s already moving. Boots slapping wet wood, hands out for balance. Her breath ragged, mirroring you with her hair soaked and plastered to her face. Panic bleeds through every motion. She doesn’t take it slow, overlapping with you as the horses skirt off. She pushes at your shoulders, forcing you forward.

The bridge objects, a desperate, splintering whine. Beneath your boots, you feel the wood begin to give out, warping until Mia keeps pushing past you. You reach out to Samuel, catching the look in his eyes, much too slow. The wood gives way with a sharp, vicious snap.

You feel the moment before the fall like a held breath. The plummet comes fast. Your stomach drops before your body does, dragged down by gravity and rot. Wood, water, and screams blur together—Mia’s voice tangling with yours, the river opening its mouth to swallow you both whole.

The river doesn't catch you—it devours you.

A choking, burning cold that immediately soaks your clothing, pulling you underneath as the shock begs you to take a breath. 

You’re a ragdoll in its grip, moving fast, limbs slamming against jagged wood, slick rocks scraping along your ribs, your shoulder, your spine. There’s no up, no down—just tumble , just impact . 

You breach the surface for a split second, a large gasp, like taking your first breath after being born. Just enough to remember what air is before the river fists your chest and pulls you back under.

Thrashing in your heavy clothes, you kick and claw to grasp anything. Screaming to breathe even when your vision smears to nothing but green and black. You open your mouth— reflex, mistake —and the river fills you. 

Your first thought is that it burns, and maybe you thought your death would be peaceful. No, it’s not, you didn't deserve peace. Your body is a numbness as it gets swept away, losing control of your extremities from the freezing waters. Every nerve fires in protest, a final tantrum before the lights dim. Your body fights until it can’t. Until something in you lets go.

And in that flicker of surrender—when your limbs stop flailing, when your heartbeat thins in your ears— that’s when it stops hurting. That’s when you become so numb that there’s some semblance of peace. 

Strange how you fought so hard, survived so much, only to drown because fear made someone reckless. You can't even blame Mia—panic makes animals of us all. And wasn't survival always just one misstep away from disaster anyway?

Lungs on fire, pressure squeezing gently, demanding surrender. You wonder vaguely about what's next, if anything comes after this murky dark. Yet, strangely, the fear recedes, and something like peace brushes your thoughts.

Because, in the end, someone saw you—these strangers, flawed as they were, reached out, offered warmth, offered shelter. At least, for a brief flicker in the dark, you were someone worth saving.

And someone had cared for you. They cared. 

___

Breaking branches. The crunching sound beneath your boot, the satisfying crackle sound—you used to chase that feeling in the fall, seeking leaves that snapped underfoot. Back home, before Jackson, before everything. You'd lengthen your step to hear that crunch. But this isn't autumn, it's spring. No leaves, no branches beneath your weight, so why does the cracking still echo around you?

You attempt to open your eyes, but your body resists. Cold rain pelts your face, pooling in the hollow of your eyes, sharp little needles pricking against your numbed skin. Yet, somehow, inside you're warm, almost burning. Your chest ignites with every labored breath, a deep, fiery pain in your lungs. Your body rolls involuntarily, and suddenly you're retching—water spills from your lips, hot and bitter on your tongue. Lungs aching as life pushes its way back in.

An involuntary wail escapes your mouth from deep within you. 

“Fuck, c’mon.” Samuel’s voice sounds distant, muffled through the haze that clouds your mind. 

Time has lost meaning; it might have been hours, could be seconds—you can’t tell if you're waking up or drifting into some endless dream. Maybe you're still underwater, perhaps this is death, and you're trapped in its embrace. Another cough rattles your body, contracting your core, until finally, you manage to force your eyes open. Mud clings to your back, rain collects around your body, but nothing feels real yet. You gaze upwards, and the trees look like you're falling into the sky as your equilibrium spins.

The sound continues, rhythmic and sickening, not from your imagination. 

Slowly, painfully, you roll your head toward the noise. Samuel kneels beside Mia, his blonde hair darkened by rain, clinging to his forehead. Mud streaks his face, a mixture of desperation and panic twisting his features. His hands pump rhythmically into Mia’s sternum, each push sharp, accompanied by the sound of crackling bone beneath the force of his palms. 

Mia lies unmoving, her skin pale, lips tinged a ghostly blue. The warmth inside you vanishes instantly, leaving behind a chill so profound it seeps into your bones, heavier and colder than the river that nearly claimed you. 

You force yourself upright, waterlogged clothes pulling you down. Your elbow buckles instantly, shooting pain travelling up your bones; collapsing again, breath hitching with a rasp. Your lungs still burn, the river lingering in your throat, whispering cruelly— I almost had you.

“S-Sam—” Your voice breaks, pathetic, barely more than a strained whisper swallowed by the thunder. He doesn’t hear you, doesn’t look your way. His focus is locked on Mia, his movements desperate, frantic compressions against her chest. You look away, heart tightening, fear curling around your spine like thorns.

Where were the infected now? Did the horses run for it? How long had Samuel been at it?

You gather your breath, pain splintering from all over as you try again. “S-Samuel—”

This time, he looks up, soaked hair plastered across his forehead, his eyes dark with rain, defeat already shimmering beneath the surface.

“I-I’m tryin’—” he says, voice shredded by something more than exhaustion. His fingers press to Mia’s neck, searching for life. He shakes his head, frustration mingling with grief, then tries again, compressing with renewed vigor.

Your vision clouds, edges smudged in black ink as you turn your gaze skyward. The clouds churn, even darker now, indifferent and cold, as if this loss means nothing—as if Mia means nothing .

“She’s gone,” Samuel finally murmurs. His voice is quiet, barely audible over the river's cruel laughter. You force your head sideways, catching him gently zipping Mia’s jacket to her chin, like he’s tucking her away, protecting her dignity, her memory, before slowly rising. He pauses, uncertain, hovering as though his heart is still begging him to try again, to keep fighting until he, too, collapses.

Warmth trails down your cheek—blood or tears, you can't tell anymore. Your heart fractures, the pieces sharp enough to draw more blood, digging deeper wounds.

“N-No,” you choke out, the sob tightening in your throat, agony ripping through your chest anew. You claw at the mud, fingers trembling, desperate to crawl closer, to revive what Samuel couldn't. But your limbs fail you, heavy with grief, useless against the weight of death.

Samuel’s voice reaches you again, distant yet firm.

“Can ya stand? Storm’s only gonna get worse if we stay.” The wind surges as if agreeing with him, whipping icy needles of rain against your skin, each drop harsher than the last. 

You blink, vision blurring, eyes fixed on the dark shape of Mia’s body lying pale, framed by the churned-up earth.

“I… I don’t know,” you murmur, the words brittle in your throat, already breaking apart. You taste them like you taste the blood on your tongue. 

“What about Mia?” you ask, the words leaving your lips without thought, drawn from a place in you still desperately reaching for order in this chaos.

Samuel’s response comes slowly, like he's pulling it up through mud. “When the storm lets up, we’ll ride back. We’ll bring her home.”

He lifts you carefully, wrapping a sturdy arm around your waist. Most of your weight leans against him—your legs weak, unsteady, a distant feeling like you’ve left half of yourself behind. 

Pain blazes suddenly, white-hot, down your thigh. Glancing down, you see a thin branch, splintered and jagged, driven deep into the meat of your outer thigh. Blood trickles warmly, seeping in slow, crimson rivers down your jeans. A sinking dread spreads, an awful feeling, that if the river didn’t kill you, the blood loss will, or the hypothermia that wants you to claw at your clothing. Your head feels light, but with what strength you have, you look back.

Your gaze lingers on Mia’s shrinking form as Samuel drags you forward, step after painful step. You wonder if her last thoughts were anything like yours—fleeting, uncertain, unfinished—an echo cut short by the cruelty of circumstance.

You limp further into the storm-darkened woods, each aching step carries you away from her—into the forest, into a silence heavier than the churning waters. 

A bitter metallic taste coats the roof of your mouth, accentuating the cold in your body. Your vision fogs at the edges, darkening in slow pulses. You barely register the grip of Samuel’s hands, steadying you as everything begins to tilt.

Somewhere in Jackson, Maria situates at her desk. Flicking on the lamp at her left, her desk illuminates in all its messy glory. 

Finally, Maria lets out a hearty sigh. It had been a rather rough and long morning. Benji was sick—or just didn’t want to get up for school—and she had to argue with him for half an hour. Tommy had been no help, already out the door with a chaste kiss. The rain had caused her bad knee to act up, so she resorted to hobbling over the puddles. 

The static crackle of her walkie jolts her from the edge of focus, just as she grabs her logbook. For a moment, it’s static—then Jesse’s voice bleeds through, half-garbled, his usual morning ramble punctuated by weather reports and poor signal.

“Patrol three hasn’t checked in,” he states, his tone forced casual. “Figured they holed up somewhere. I’ll try again before sending scouts.”

Maria didn’t answer right away. Pressing deep with her fingers to her temples, exhaling a deep sigh. She didn’t know where to begin with all the work. 

Another hour trickles by, and the rain still hasn’t let up. She blinks out the windows into the view of the sky and storm that has gotten worse. The papers in front of her blur at the edges—supply logs, outage reports, fuel calculations. Mercy wasn’t on the list.

They wouldn’t make it another year, not like this. Their only source of electricity, the dam, was half-collapsing again. The west end was already losing power due to chewed-up wiring, which posed a fire hazard. Every year, she thought it’d be the last they could hold. And yet, somehow, Jackson survived. She just didn’t know what it was costing her anymore.

Then—boots. Pounding down the hallway, fast and heavy. A knock, short and sharp.

“It’s open,” she calls out, already bracing herself, slipping her glasses off her nose.

Jesse barrels in, flushed and breathless.

“You ran?”

“I—I did.” He drags mud across her rug like he’s unaware it exists, navy raincoat dripping into a puddle on her floor.

“Walkie?”

“Tried,” he says, chest rising hard. Maria pulls it from her belt, flips the volume on high—dead.

“Patrol three’s horses just showed up at the gate,” he says. “No sign of the riders.”

“Shit.”

Her body moves before her brain can quite catch up. That old tightness coiling in her gut—same one she’d felt the morning of the horde, when a large chunk of the town ended up buried the next day. 

Maria’s already moving. She doesn’t think, just reaches for her coat, and slings it over her squared shoulders. “Did you send scouts?”

“They left after I last walkied. Storm’s getting worse.”

“Call the rest home,” she orders without much thought, voice laced with authority. 

Already halfway down the hall, Jesse hurries to keep up. Outside, the sky has turned violent. Rain comes sideways, needling into her coat as she steps into the street. She doesn’t flinch as she half walks, half runs into it. She’d seen worse than this, and worse had come walking back before.

Static burst through the walkie clipped to Jesse’s hip—scouts confirming the bridge had collapsed near Pine Crossing. The river was flooded over before the line crackles too much to hear. 

Maria's first thought was you . Out there with your reckless judgment and false confidence. She’d kept her doubts mostly to herself, let you wear the armor that didn’t quite fit. She turned a blind eye to everything, played the role, and let Tommy talk her into letting you go. And she knew .

But now, here she was—pacing the wall like some worried mother, chewing the inside of her cheek raw, praying her lack of restraint wouldn’t cost another life.

The floor beneath her boots was already worn; another few minutes, and she’d carve a path into the wood.

Tommy’s silhouette breaks through the stormlight as he approaches. Drenched, like he hadn’t had any time to zip up his coat, dark curls dripping into tiny ringlets. She stopped pacing but didn’t look at him. Didn’t want a fight. Didn’t want to say it out loud, not in front of everyone— I told you so —but he’d see it in her eyes anyway.

“She’ll be okay,” Tommy said, his voice quiet as he neared her. “They all will, Samuel knows what he’s doing.”

Maria exhales loudly, the kind that comes from somewhere below her ribs.

“Mia was in charge, you know her. We can’t lose any more people, Tommy.”

Not another body. Not another name added to the long list along the wall. 

“There won’t be any of that today.” 

Maria felt sick of the waiting, a helpless knot lodged deep within her chest, growing tighter with each passing second. She strained her vision, peering into the veil of rain-soaked trees until Jesse’s sudden movement broke her trance, pointing urgently toward the distant treeline and pressing the binoculars into her shaking hands.

Even through magnified lenses, the silhouettes remained blurred, ghostly figures racing toward the gates. Her pulse quickened, heart hammering erratically in her chest. Three scouts rode hard, desperation evident in their stride. 

The gate moans heavily, metal creaking painfully, protesting against the rain that seeps into every hinge, promising rust. Her breath caught sharply as the riders breached the walls in a flurry of mud and urgency, horses slicked and panting.

Instantly, Maria recognized Joel. Rain tracing the sharp lines of his face, hair dark and matted, dripping from the tip of his nose, darkening the scruff along his jaw. His brows knit tight beneath the downpour, pulling the reins taut with a single decisive hand. His horse halts sharply in the mud, obedient to his silent command, hooves skidding slightly against the slick ground. 

Samuel nearly throws himself from the back of the shared mount of another horse. Staggering slightly before finding his footing, immediately moving towards Joel. 

Maria’s attention, however, darts to find you amongst them. Frantic eyes searching wildly at weary faces. Then, you—wrapped protectively in the shelter of the coat Joel was wearing. You sit draped sideways over his horse, slumped, limp, and lifeless against his chest like a fallen thing. Your skin a ghostly pale, lips tinted a terrifying shade of purplish-blue, your head lolling softly with each breath Joel takes.

She couldn’t even tell if you were breathing, your eyes closed so softly it looked like sleep. Maria knew something was wrong, the way your body looked drained of all warmth—in the slackness of your limbs, in the terrifying stillness of your form.

Maria could feel the ground sway beneath her, her heart stuttering, a dreadful ache spreading rapidly through her veins. 

“What happened?” Maria demands, voice barely rising above the pounding rain, urgent and thick with worry as Tommy rushes forward to join Samuel in carefully easing your fragile form from Joel’s protective grasp.

Maria takes Joel in from his high horse. He didn’t look like a savior. He looked like hell. Drenched to the skin, eyes flat and unreadable, jaw set in that stubborn way of his—like if death had come for you, he’d have fought it with his bare hands. Not because he knew you. But because someone had to.

Your blood had warmed through his clothes on the ride back—now cold, running down the saddle, seeping in dark streaks as he shifts to cradle your head with his palm. He helps guide it into Tommy’s arms so as to not have it whip back. Joel wanted to know the answer to that question the entire way home. One minute, he’d been on his knees patching a leak in the dining hall. Next, he was out in the rain, on some trek for Jesse with two others. 

Samuel had been half-delirious when they found you, his words looping like a broken record: She needs to get home. We need to get her home.

Over and over, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

And Joel—he'd never seen Samuel so spooked. Even as he took you from Samuel's arms, his hands trembled as he pressed them to your wound, like sheer will alone could keep the blood in your body.

“And Mia?” Jesse spoke up, and Maria felt guilt wrap around her throat and squeeze. She didn't even notice Mia wasn't present, but she could connect the dots. Samuel’s somber eyes meet with Maria’s, briefly, and with a soft shake of his head, he follows Tommy to the hospital.

Chapter Text

Maria stood at a crossroads—caught between the instinct to follow the two men and the need to stay behind and ask the necessary questions, clawing at her throat. A friend’s worry tangled with a leader’s duty, pulling her taut in opposite directions. But after a few long breaths that fogged in the cold, she chose forward. Chose trust. Tommy would get you where you needed to go—she had to believe that.

Maria's a leader. People look to her for answers in moments of need, and she had to remember: there was a town to protect. A future to hold steady for hundreds of lives.

Still, her mind spins with conclusions she's not yet ready to name. No one should’ve been sent that close to the river. No one should’ve been left that exposed when rain like that is so unpredictable this time of year. Blame had no shape, no name—but still the guilt settles in her shoulders like iron. Standing in the aftermath, Maria busily attempts to hold herself to some standard.

A passing thought of Mia’s absence presses in like a bruise. They’d left her out there. And now the rain wouldn’t quit. Just kept falling like it had something to say. She grimly wonders if the body would still be there when they finally made it. Her mouth presses into a fine line.

“I got this one,” Maria says, barely turning to Joel as she takes the reins of two horses. Her hands move fast, practiced, tugging the animals toward the stables where the others disappear. The air was so cold that her fingers fumbled over buckles, slick with rain, but she didn’t waver.

Thunder cracked open the sky again. Maria flinches at the sudden intrusion of a reminder, though no one sees.

They’d go back when the rain let up, she silently acknowledged. They would take a makeshift drag sled if there were any left. Retrieve Mia, and inform her sister and father before they leave. Then, bury her a mile outside town—where Maria had designated a cemetery. It was nothing extravagant; it was a modest area, and they did their best to keep up with the maintenance . A fenced area with the graves of loved ones. And now, Mia, because she mattered; she was one of us. 

“Shouldn't’ve been anyone out there. Not this time of year.” Joel's voice reverberates from down the aisle. Rough-edged in that quiet accusatory way as Maria finished tending to Penny.

Maria draws a sharp breath through her nose, her jaw tightening slightly as she latches the stall gate shut behind her. “Nobody could’ve predicted this, Joel.”

He gave a short, harsh exhale—not exactly disagreement, but close enough. “We know the weather. Saw somethin’ comin’.”

Maria turns to face him fully now, irritation pricking at the edges of her nerves. His face is so similar to Tommy's, yet so different at the same time. His brows pinch together, shadowing his eyes just slightly.

“That’s not the same thing.” Her voice edges dangerously close to snapping, anger bubbling up from deep within her chest. But she keeps herself in line; no use arguing with a wall named Joel.

“Storms roll in all the time. You think I’d sign off on the route if I thought that damn bridge was gonna collapse?” She hated feeling accused, especially by Joel. Their relationship was a tangled thing: obligatory family, barely friends, bound only by circumstance and cautious respect. She still didn't know much about him, even in these handful of years, not really—Joel was closed off to most. Not exactly impertinent, but solitary by choice. And Maria had long ago accepted she wasn't about to decode him.

"That trail has been off limits for weeks."

"Samuel said infected ambushed them, that's why they crossed." Joel follows her out into the rain, relentless as it hammers the ground, soaking them instantly.

Maria halts, mulling his words.

"There were sightings," she murmurs quietly to herself. Maria tugs her hood forward, shielding herself against the downpour, but Joel barely seems to notice it. The longer they converse, the more she feels like she's to blame.

“Who signed off on the patrol route?” he pressed, voice steady beneath the storm.

“I did, Joel,” she shoots back, meeting his stare through the haze of rain. “I did,” she repeats, voice shaky but swallowed immediately. She doesn’t break his stare—doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

Joel stops pressing, looks around for a moment, eyes caught with that distant feeling. “What’s done’s done. That’s what we live with.”

Maria doesn’t watch him leave; her eyes remain fixed on nothing, rain sluicing down her shoulders. Joel was right—and it rusts over her chest. Guilt might blur the edges, but the sting is still unmistakable, venomous in her gut. 

She let concern for you cloud her judgment. Had unknowingly evolved into another mother instead of a friend. Had been so preoccupied with logs, paperwork, reports, that she brushed aside the warnings, convinced herself it couldn't be helped. Rain came and went, no problem. But now—now there's ink drying on the ledger. There's a name, stark and cold. A father whose daughter won’t return home.

Maybe that’s what leadership truly meant: standing still beneath an unforgiving sky, rain-soaked, feeling every weight of the pen in her hand, knowing it’s her signature etched across the loss.

Maria spots Dr. Bennett on the second floor of the infirmary, catching her in the hallway just outside your room. The doctor’s face is unreadable with years of breaking bad news, and Maria matches it instinctively—shoulders back, jaw set, voice pitched low as they step aside to speak. Their conversation hums beneath the fluorescent lights, quiet and clipped, careful not to echo against the floors.

She listens carefully, keeps her hands folded and her stance firm, the way a leader should. But untangling her concern for you from her position feels impossible.

“We're going to do what we can, but she’s stable for now.” Dr. Bennett is wearing her dark hair down today, a contrast to her white coat. But she looks tired nonetheless.

Maria’s head contorts to glance into your room, still lying there like when you'd first gotten there. 

“She aspirated quite a bit. Pretty banged up too .” Dr. Bennett adds, voice low. “Crackles in both lungs. Shallow respirations, but steady for now. We’ll keep her upright and warm. If infection sets in—”

Maria cuts her off with a nod. “Then we deal with it.”

Dr. Bennett hesitates. “If she stops breathing again, I can’t promise—”

“I said we’ll deal with it.”

But Maria didn’t know if they would; they didn’t have proper antibiotics, and they didn’t have the necessary equipment for such cases. The town would come up short.

“I told her to take it easy,” Dr. Bennett expresses—soft now, almost apologetic, like she could’ve done more. Less like a doctor, more like Amelia now. 

Maria freezes mid-thought, her expression pinching. “You what?” she asks, though the knot twisting in her gut already knows the answer. Already sees the string of lies unraveling.

“I never really cleared her,” Amelia says slowly, carefully choosing each word as her gaze searches Maria’s face for any indication of understanding. “Didn’t think patrol was a good idea, not that my word means much these days,” she adds, quieter now, a bitter little truth tucked into the softest part of her voice.

A part of Maria wants to scoff, not at Amelia, but at herself.

“She swore she was fine—begged me to believe her. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. She’s still rail-thin, and I know she’s not sleeping. Something’s keeping her up… something that won’t let her rest. I told her to take it slow. I warned her. But she didn’t listen.”

Maria feels something bitter claw at the back of her throat. She'd trusted you. Trusted that earnest, stubborn insistence, your eyes that promised they were fine when clearly they weren't. Or maybe...Maria made herself believe that you were getting better.

“You didn't clear her?” Maria repeats, more to herself than Amelia, the realization dawning on her. “She didn’t tell me.”

Amelia nods slowly. There's sympathy in the gesture, restrained and quiet. "Anyone could tell she wanted to prove herself, especially to you. And being useful is what she sees here in Jackson, maybe she wanted someone to trust her for once.” 

Maria looks away, jaw flexing, having only heard one thing. “So she lied. She wasn’t ready. I knew it.” But she didn’t; Maria was too busy rebuilding the town. The same tangled feeling returns to weigh her chest down. Were you to blame? Or was she falsely blaming you because she couldn't bear to be the one to condemn? It all felt unfair, to you, to her, to Mia.

“She’s not the reason that bridge collapsed,” Amelia says carefully, reaching to brush Maria's arm. “We both know that. It was an accident, and her condition now had no correlation to her state of mind. It's just...how everything comes to light."

Maria doesn’t answer at first. She just stares at the far wall, like she’s seeing over every mistake she didn’t know she made. When she finally speaks, her voice is stretched thin. 

“But I should’ve seen it.” 

“It was a bad call, a split decision that had bad consequences; no one is at fault. Especially not you.” Amelia shifts, leaning a shoulder against the wall. 

“But lying about being healthy—that’s not just a bad call. That’s a crack in the system. My system, and I’m the one who let it in.” She exhales sharply, running a hand down her face. The lines around her eyes feel deeper now, like she has aged since this morning. 

“You’re a good person, Maria. Don’t take this all on as your own.” Amelia gives a tight, light smile as she braces and pivots to enter your room. 

It was too late, Maria had taken it, stitched it into her mind. She had trusted you—and now that trust had a price.

You wake to a dim room, washed in the soft amber glow of a bedside lamp. The door is cracked open, just enough for the hallway light to spill in like a sliver of dawn. It casts long, quiet shadows on the wall. 

Your mouth is paper dry. You swallow hard. There's movement—someone in the doorway, just a shift of weight and then footsteps, crossing the threshold.

“Where...?” The word scrapes out of you.

“You’re in Jackson, in the hospital,” a woman says, her voice low and even.

You try to lift your head, but it drops back against the pillow like a stone. Muscles quake from the effort. You can’t even hold yourself up.

“Easy,” she murmurs. Her face is familiar in the way strangers sometimes are—someone you’ve passed before, maybe nodded to, but never truly known. Or perhaps the receptionist at all your check-ins.

Your throat burns. You whisper for water, fingertips twitching toward her like a prayer. She brings the glass to your mouth, careful. You want to drink it all, but she tilts only a little at a time—shallow sips that feel cruel to a body so desperate.

“W-where’s Maria?” you manage, your voice thready. You still want more water. Want something you can’t name. You lick your chapped lips, your mouth tasting of something metallic and earthy.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she says. “She went home.”

You don’t know why it hurts so bad, but it does. The words sink like lead, and something in your chest folds in on itself—tight, small, afraid of being alone.

“Oh.”

You didn’t even feel the tears coming, but now they fall fast and fat, tracing down your cheekbones, your jaw, soaking into the collar of the plain white shirt that hangs loose on your frame. She turns to go, and panic claws up your ribs—you catch the fabric of her shirt between your fingers, weak, trembling.

She looks down but doesn’t pull away. Just takes your hand, gently pries it off, and tucks it beneath the blanket like you’re something fragile.

“You should sleep. You’ve been through a lot,” she tells you, then steps out, leaving the door cracked, just enough.

You don’t sleep.

Your limbs feel weighted, like you could stay in this bed another day or two—but your mind won’t stop. Won’t settle. You’ve been through a lot. Her words echo like a bell rung in the hollows of your body.

It takes everything in you to push the blanket back, noticing the skinned road rash on parts of your body. You stare down at the bandage wrapped around your thigh, tight where a branch had once been. Skin pulled taut over the stitches beneath. You study your toes like they belong to someone else and try to move them. Just a twitch. Just to prove you still can.

It exhausts you.

You pull the blanket back up, let it swallow you again, and lie still. Watching shadows shift across the hallway floor. Counting them like they might tell you something new. Like they might keep you safe. You don’t know when you fall asleep. Just that you do, eventually.

When you wake again, it's to murmurs slipping softly through the room, low enough to barely stir you from sleep, but insistent enough to pull at the edges of your awareness. You don't know how long they've been there, only that they're speaking of you.

Your eyelids crack open reluctantly, squinting against the merciless light spilling through the blinds. Sunlight floods the space like liquid gold, brilliant and unforgiving, a promise of warmth that feels surreal after hours of relentless gloom. It feels like salvation, as if the worst has passed, as if no more storms linger at your doorstep. Yet the ache remains, lingering deep in your bones, an unshakable shadow reminding you that the storm outside wasn’t the only one you've weathered.

“Hey,” Maria's voice comes gently, soothing like honey as her weight dips softly onto the edge of your bed.

“Hi,” you rasp instinctively, shifting upright a bit too quickly, your limbs still stiff and heavy. In the corner by the window, Tommy leans quietly against the wall, watchful eyes flicking between you and his wife, silent as sunlight and just as curious.

You force a fragile smile, pushing yourself to sit upright. 

“Well, sleeping beauty finally decided to join us,” Tommy says from his corner, a soft grin breaking across his face.

Maria cranes her neck to glare at him, exasperation softening her eyes. “Really? That’s your opener?”

Tommy raises his hands defensively, chuckling quietly. You want to say it’s okay—that his jokes make your head pound less—but he mumbles something about picking up Benji, gives Maria a gentle squeeze on her shoulder, and slips out the door.

Maria watches him go, the warmth fading slightly from her expression as soon as the door clicks shut. She lets out a slow breath, like she's trying to steady something inside herself before turning back to you.

“You look like hell,” she says softly, a weary kindness behind her eyes.

You attempt a weak smile, tugging at your own sense of humor to keep things light. “Don’t remind me.”

Maria nods, but her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. There’s silence for a beat longer than feels comfortable, and you sense the conversation about to turn. Anxiety twists quietly in your chest, a knot tightening.

“You scared us, y'know,” she starts gently. 

“I know,” you say, trying not to let your voice crack. You’re not sure why you wanted to appear strong, especially after everything. Maybe it was because of that. She’d only seen you at your worst, and perhaps you wanted some control. 

Her jaw tightens, just a little, and she sighs quietly again, folding her arms as she finally meets your eyes directly. "Look—”

“Maria—” you both say it at once, words colliding awkwardly in the air.

She holds up a hand gently, silencing you. She stands at the edge of your bed, walking to the center of the room. “Now, don’t start. Let me speak.”

“But the bridge,” you attempt again, voice thin with worry.

“I know,” she says, firm yet gentle, the finality in her voice unmistakable. Her eyes, steady now, hold something deeper—grief, frustration, and that quiet flicker of pity you've been dreading.

She wanders over to the window, a pacing stance as she finally turns to you, and the silence twists something in you. 

“You weren’t supposed to be there,” Maria says at last, her voice low, even—but not unfeeling. There’s no heat to it. No raised voice. That’s not how Maria works. It’s worse than yelling. It’s precise and intentional.

She stands with her arms folded across her chest, boots planted like she’s bracing for something, not from you—from herself.

“And I don’t mean the route,” she continues. “I mean the fact that you said you were ready.”

You shift beneath the thin blanket, the cotton catching on your fingers as you grip the edge. You want to speak, but the words taste like ash.

“This isn’t your fault,” she says. “Not the storm. Not the infected. Not the bridge. Not Mia.”

She pauses on the name like it takes effort to say it—like the syllables are jagged glass she has to step over. She doesn’t flinch. Maria never does. She just presses on, because that’s what leaders do.

“But you lied,” she says simply. “And that’s what I can’t ignore.”

You blink, eyes stinging, but not from pain. You look at her, really look at her—and realize she hasn’t slept. Her hair’s pulled back tighter than usual. Her hands are shaking, just barely, beneath her folded arms.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice threadbare. You want to tell Maria the truth, that you couldn't sleep, that something was wrong with you, that it always felt like you were on the brink of something fleeting. But you didn't know the truth yourself, so you press your lips tightly together.

Maria nods once, like she already knew that. But it doesn’t change anything.

“You said you could handle it,” she says, stepping closer, her tone steady. “You told me you were fit for patrol. I vouched for you. And maybe I wanted to believe it. Maybe I needed to.”

She exhales, a long, quiet breath that sounds like it’s been building all night. Her gaze flickers to the window, to the mountains beyond. She doesn’t look at you when she says it:

“And now Mia’s dead.”

The silence that follows is the kind that settles into your bones. Cold and final.

“And you—” she swallows, finally meeting your eyes, “you almost were.”

Your chest tightens. Your hands curl into the blanket, still healing wounds cracking open. There’s a strange, awful feeling inside you—like grief’s meaner cousin. Shame, maybe. Or guilt with sharper teeth. 

“I can’t lose someone else. I can’t bury another patrol lead. So that’s it. You’re done with patrols until I can trust you. Until you're better.” You feel it more than hear it—that blow. It's not cruel. It’s not dramatic. But it lands in your gut like a slow collapse in your world.

Maria’s voice softens, but only slightly. Just enough to let the honesty bleed through.

“This isn’t a punishment,” she says. “It’s protection. For you. And for everyone else.”

You nod. What else can you do? You puzzingly understand that she was the only one who trusted you, and you broke it. Just to feel useful, just to feel normal again in your own selfish way. But it still feels like a door closing. Like something in you just got labeled unfit, unworthy, and now you’re back at the beginning. 

“I can still help,” you whisper, hating how desperate you sound. 

“And you can do that by following my orders,”

And Maria, still every inch the leader, turns toward the door. Before she reaches it, she stops—her hand resting on the frame, her back still to you.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes softening before returning to normal. “But I need people I can trust out there. And right now, I just don’t know if that’s you.”

She doesn’t wait for your reply.

The door closes with a soft click. 

Outside, birdsong flits through the open window, all too bright and oblivious. While the sun burns a blinding white-hot across the linoleum. A cruel contrast to the storm curling back in your skull.

Death, ruin—they trailed you like shadows that never learned how to let go. You weren’t the one who pulled the trigger, no, it was an accident. But Mia was still dead, and somehow, you could already feel the town turning on you.

It wouldn’t be Samuel’s fault. He was a safe ally, known and trusted. But you? You were still the outsider. The stranger with a story full of holes. The easy scapegoat.

You didn’t even know how you’d made it this far on your own. Just that you were tired. Just that whatever would destroy you—it was probably already inside you.

And it was only a matter of time.

Chapter Text

In Jackson, summer arrives feverishly—an animal in heat, peeling back its layers until only bare warmth remains. The rooms thicken and swell, the air slick with humidity that clings like skin you can't shed. By the time June gives in, July has already stretched itself out over the valleys, lush and greedy, devouring everything in green. Wildflowers spring up like rebellion, blooming through the cracks in the concrete, gathered in clusters—left quiet on your bedside table by passing nurses.

You watch it all from the second floor. A chair wedged beneath your window, your elbows on the sill. The world moves without you—slow and sweet. Laughter drifts through open streets like smoke, curling into the edges of your isolation.

But in this room, you are still. You’re not trapped, not precisely. The doors remain unlocked, like most doors in Jackson. But you stay because they tell you it's in your best interest, because you feel it’s what is expected of you. And you haven’t been given any good alternatives since climbing stairs still makes your legs shake weakly.

So you stay. You eat the bland meals, let the nurses check your healed wounds, and brush your hair semi-regularly. You’ve convinced yourself that if you can just tick all the right boxes—smile, walk without limping, stop clenching your fists in your sleep—then maybe Maria’ll let you out of your padded cell. Perhaps she'll let you back on patrols, and you’ll belong again.

It’s all you’ve thought about. You sit by the window most days, watching the town move without you. Kids tear through the heat, barefoot and loud, shrieking with laughter that cuts through the summer air like sirens. And still, you stay. You wait. You play the part.

Because if this is what it takes, you'll take it. If it gets you back to patrols. To be of some use. To have that slight taste of normalcy again. 

“ Please tell me you don’t actually read those.” A voice cuts through the quiet like a thread pulled loose, and it's like all the thoughts spill out. Glancing up from the glossy page, thumb marking your spot.

A girl—young, compact, louder than her frame would suggest—leans in the doorway like she owns it. Her dark hair’s yanked up tight; her skin is golden-olive and flushed.

Almost a month of the same routine—quiet days, clipped conversations with nurses, the rare visitor offering a few strained words. You’ve started to forget how to respond. How to be clever, how to sound like yourself.

Maria stopped by a few times with Benji in tow, but those visits were brief—polite check-ins that dwindled fast as the heat simmered.

You look down at your lap. A magazine from before. The cover girl stares up at you with impossible hollow cheekbones and a shade of red lipstick that doesn’t exist anymore. You were reading an article about undertones, and which color looked best. Whatever the hell undertones even means.

“Passes the time,” you mutter, closing the worn book.

She takes it as an invitation, stepping into the room like she’s been here before. She drops onto your bed with a heavy sigh, like gravity’s been riding her hard lately.

Her shirt hikes up as she shifts, revealing the gentle swell of a pregnant belly—round, high, like it snuck up on her. Like she’s still pretending her old clothes fit. Her hand finds it instinctively. She smiles, but it’s the tired kind.

“Second trimester,” she says, already settling in. " God , my sciatica is actually fuckin’ killing me.” She leans back on her hands, trying to stretch out her spine, and the bed creaks under her.

“The nurses stash the good shit,” she murmurs, voice dropping like a shared secret between bunk beds. “You know—tips to keep a guy desperate. Tricks that make him see God and forget his own name.”

Her grin is wolfish, unapologetic, all teeth and trouble. “None of that cutesy ‘match your lipstick to your mood’ shit. Think seduction that melts brains.”

You blink. Heat crawls up your neck like ivy. You stare back at the magazine—glossy spreads, thousand-dollar dresses, the polished boredom of women who’ve never had dirt under their nails.

“Oh—manners.” She gives a little wave, then fans herself with it. Her cheeks go pink to match yours with the heat. “I’m Dina.”

“I’ve seen you at the dining hall,” you say. It’s true, technically, though everything these days feels like a drive-by—faces, memories, moments.

She winks. “Can’t resist the apple strudels. Seth makes ’em just for me.”

You snort, surprised by the ease. “That explains why I’ve never had one.”

“I swear, the only perk of being pregnant is getting a free pass to do whatever and eat whatever I want.” Dina smooths a gentle palm down her belly, fingertips resting tenderly just below her navel.

You watch her, something unnamed stirring within your chest. Children had always seemed a distant consideration—an abstract possibility buried far beneath the harsh priorities of survival. Yet here, seeing Dina glowing, effortless and radiant in her youth, you feel a quiet pang.

It's not envy exactly, but something softer and deeper, edged with melancholy. You are capable, you remind yourself—still firmly anchored in your thirties. Yet, how could you justify bringing innocence into a rotting world clawed raw by loss and fear?

No, you weren't judging Dina; Jackson provides something like hope. But as her joy beams bright and uncomplicated, it casts a subtle shadow on your own heart, highlighting an ache for something. You're not sure what, the stability, or something like comfort.

“So,” you begin, watching her tap a beat over her belly, “picked a name yet?”

Dina exhales like you’ve just asked her to solve world peace. “No. Jesse keeps pitching these godawful names. Harold. Jonathan. Like—those are grown man names. You can’t name a baby Jonathan.”

“Jesse?” you blink. “As in twenty-two-going-on-fifty Jesse? Tommy’s shadow Jesse?”

She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t remind me. Love him, but the guy’s got a stick so far up his ass he could hang curtains off it.”

A laugh erupts from you. “Didn’t even think he had it in him. To be a dad, I mean. I only ever see him brown nosing Maria.”

“Yeah, well, turns out kiss-asses have swimmers. Who knew?” she shrugs, and you wish you could achieve that level of nonchalance. 

Something uncertain flickers across Dina’s face—a quick ripple of dread or hesitation, so brief it’s almost like you imagined it. Like she brushed up against a thought she’s not ready to touch. Her eyes dart downward, reserved, and in an instant, she’s changing gears, slipping effortlessly away from whatever she almost revealed. You imagine that works quite well with Jesse, but you notice.

“Anyway,” Dina breathes out, her voice rising slightly, too breezy to be genuine, “I just wanted to introduce myself, y’know, since I’ll probably see you around more.” She hops off the edge of your bed, sneakers landing with a muted thud against the floor.

Your mind catches on late, struggling to decipher what it was she could be feeling. She’s almost at the door when you speak, quiet but urgent. “Wait—what do you mean?”

She pauses, looking over her shoulder with eyebrows gently knitted. “About the project?” Dina says slowly, leaning against the cool metal frame, as if the misunderstanding is amusing but also slightly baffling.

You tip your head, confusion coiling tighter inside your chest. “The project?”

“The expansion project,” she repeats, matching your cautious tone, now mirroring your confusion back at you. Her brows pinch closer, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to discern whether you're messing with her—or genuinely lost.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say slowly, like the words might make more sense if you give them time. Like maybe you missed a beat in the conversation—maybe Dina already explained this and your brain just… hiccuped. Maybe you are going stir-crazy up here.

Dina’s eyebrows knit, her mouth tugging into a crooked line. “Maria didn’t tell you?” She steps into your room again, hands on her hips, chin lifted. “Shit. My bad.”

“Maria’s only come by a couple times,” you say, your voice quieter now. “I haven’t really been out much since the accident.”

Accident. The word sits wrong in your mouth—too clean, too neutral. You swallow hard around it anyway, like dressing a wound with gauze that isn't sterile.

It was an accident. But still, you’ve spent too many nights tracing its outline in your mind, hoping that if you run the scenario enough times, you’ll find the version where Mia lives. Maybe if you hadn’t hesitated. Perhaps if you’d crossed the bridge faster. Maybe.

Mia.

She’s dead. And you haven’t even been to her grave. You tell yourself it’s the weather, or the limp, or Maria needing you to rest. But maybe the truth is more straightforward—you haven’t left because walking to her grave would make it real. It would make her actually gone.

As if sensing your thoughts starting to spiral and fray, Dina clears her throat and softens a little. “Sorry,” she says. “I figured she would’ve told you. But... she’s been busy. Everything’s been kind of—” She waves vaguely, letting the chaos fill in the blanks.

You nod, blinking away the swirling disappointment. “Yeah. I figured.”

“The project’s for housing more people moving into Jackson. It’s been in the works, but we were short-staffed—and now that summer’s here, most of the builders are out patrolling for infected. Infection spikes in the heat, apparently,” Dina says, her voice trailing off like she’s said this a dozen times already. “So Maria pulled a bunch of us misfits together to handle it. Said something about how working together benefits everyone or whatever... I think it’s just ‘cause I’m pregnant. She doesn’t want me out there, so now I just hammer nails and boss people around.”

Her sneaker scuffs the floor, kicking at nothing in particular. She shrugs like it doesn’t bother her, but her tone says otherwise.

“But you can ask her about it tonight,” she adds, watching you. “I’m assuming you’re going?”

You blink. Shake your head. You're not sure what she’s talking about. More than that, you're blushing—embarrassed by how far removed you’ve been. How long has it been since you felt looped in?

“It’s the Fourth of July,” she says, gently.

“Oh. Right.”

“Not that it matters. The United States doesn’t even exist anymore. But Jackson still celebrates—it’s kind of a thing.” She lets out a faint, breathy laugh, half-hearted and half-sarcastic. “Gotta hold on to something, I guess.”

“And Maria’ll be there?” you ask, immediately regretting how dumb it sounds. Of course she’ll be there.

“Yeah.” Dina nods. “It’s not mandatory or anything, but I think you’d like it. Beats hospital food. And there’ll be drinks. You can even drink for two—since I can’t.” She smirks, watching you stand and drift toward the window.

Outside, the sunlight’s beginning to slope westward, dipping everything in gold. A slow trickle of people starts to gather near the recreation hall, just down the road.

“I might stop by,” you murmur—just enough to end the conversation.

But Dina doesn’t move. She’s watching you, that same look of gentle pity softening her features. The same one everyone seems to give you. You’d let your guard down, forgot to wear the smile as your colors shown. Just because you couldn’t bear being lumped in with the rest of the forgotten. Who knows, maybe this was some kind of ploy Maria had orchestrated to see if you were truly better. And you failed. 

“It’ll be fun,” she offers. “If you come. You’re more than welcome to hang out with me and my friends.”

You don’t mean to shut down. Not really. But the thought of Maria—of her pushing you to the edge of the town like you’re some project gone wrong—makes something cold spark beneath your ribs.

You feel abandoned. Worse, you feel furious. She hadn’t come to see you. Not once. Hadn’t seen how much you’ve changed—how you’d eaten your meals, smiled when the nurses came to check up, tried to make yourself seem better. Like things were finally starting to click for you. 

“Thanks,” you manage, tossing the magazine onto your bed like punctuation.

Dina gets the message. She turns without another word and slips quietly out the door.

_____

The rec hall sprawls like an oversized heartbeat—vibrant, pulsing, and slightly overwhelming. At the far end sits a modest platform that moonlights as an altar on Sundays, faith here in Jackson being a choice, never an obligation. The bell that rings every few hours is housed up above, nestled somewhere in the rafters.

Your eyes skim across the hall, landing first on the bar stretched across the entire back wall. Dina had been right—it's expansive and busy as people are drawn towards it. You weave through scattered conversations and exuberant dancers, heading straight for it, driven by the ache of nerves tangled tight in your chest.

A live band plays from the platform, framed by a worn flag hanging behind them like a stage curtain. The buffalo stitched into its center makes you think it's the Wyoming state flag, though you can’t be sure. Doesn’t matter. No one’s looking at it anyway. They churn out a lively tune, strings and drums chasing one another in spirited harmony.

Overhead, strings of lights converge in the center like a halo over the dancefloor. Softly bathing the room in a warm, honeyed glow. The crowd moves beneath them, bodies swaying like shadows cast from a dream. It’s beautiful and dizzying, a strange kind of chaos you haven’t experienced in what feels like a lifetime. You try—and fail—to recall if you've ever seen so many people gathered together at once.

Your grip tightens on the wooden edge of the bar, anchoring yourself against the overwhelming tide of faces. Dina’s invitation to hang out was comforting, yet finding her feels impossible amidst the shifting currents of laughter and dance.

“Not much on the menu tonight—ale and moonshine, straight up or otherwise, up to you.” Comes a familiar gravelly voice. Seth leans toward you across the bar, recognition flashing briefly across his weathered features—you're still the girl who spilled a whole crate of ale on her first shift. Yet he smiles, warm and easy, holding no grudges.

You hesitate only a moment before nodding. “Ale sounds perfect.”

He turns away, digging into a chilled chest behind him, pulling out a dark, swing-top bottle. With a practiced flick, he pops the lid open, the sound crisp, satisfying, and slides it smoothly across the polished wood into your waiting hand. 

“Have you seen Maria?” Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to, lost briefly beneath the swell of music and chatter.

Seth shrugs lightly, eyes already drifting to the person waiting for their turn. “Not tonight,” he says simply, leaving you adrift in a room of unfamiliar faces. 

You’re not sure how long you’d been there, but you could consider yourself a wallflower. And by some minor miracle, you catch sight of Tommy through the crowd—a familiar face in a sea of noise. Without thinking, you head straight for the table top he’s sitting alone at, watching as people come and go. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, rising to his feet with a grin and motioning toward the empty chair across from him. You sit, angling your chair so that you can face the crowd as well. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Not in my wildest dreams.”

You shrug, a little awkward, but the ale is loosening the edges of things. “Figured today was as good as any to come out of hiding,” you say, and to your surprise, it lands—Tommy chuckles, easy and warm.

He’s dressed to the nines by Jackson standards—jeans, a white tee under a crisp blue denim button-up, and a belt buckle loud enough to announce itself. His hair’s a little shorter than last time, curls tucked behind his ears like he’s trying not to care.

“Atta girl,” he grins, tipping his ale in your direction before taking a long pull. You follow suit, the cool bitterness bubbling on your tongue. 

Like it’s just small talk, like it’s not anything, you ask, “Where’s Maria?”

Tommy exhales, a satisfied sound after his drink. “Out with Benji and the kids. Should be here soon.”

You nod and cross one leg over the other. You’d done what you could with the clothes you had—dark-wash jeans, a plain maroon tee, sneakers that looked marginally better than your boots. Nothing special. Not that you were trying to impress anyone.

“She’ll be glad to see you,” Tommy says after a beat, like maybe he regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth as he runs two fingers to smooth his mustache. 

“Yeah,” you say, and the word sits heavier than it should. You don’t clarify. You don’t need to. If he knew you were planning to confront her, he’d probably stop you—not just as her husband, but as a man who’s sat in council meetings long enough to know when someone’s about to stir the pot.

You’d rehearsed every word in the mirror, whispered them to your reflection as you dressed. When can I come back to patrol? Why are you doing this? I’m better now, I promise. You mapped out every possible conversation route, each branching path carefully premeditated. Yet, here at this table, beneath flickering lights and amid drifting melodies, your palms betray your calm, slick with anxious sweat.

The ale feels tepid now, thick and flat as you drain the rest in one gulp, setting the glass down with a hollow thud. Tommy glances sidelong at you, eyes briefly narrowing in mild concern. You brace yourself for his caution— Slow down, or Take it easy —but he just tips his own glass back in quiet solidarity. 

“This night is just full'a surprises. Didn’t think he had it in him,” Tommy murmurs, pulling your attention away from the fuzzy swirl of your thoughts. The alcohol has blurred your edges, made the moment softer, warmer as your cheeks glow. You follow Tommy’s gaze toward the dance floor, realization dawning slowly and late.

Joel is unmistakable in the crowd, towering and stiff, awkwardly gentle as he moves with Dr. Bennett. His broad shoulders rigid, posture careful—as though afraid he might break her.

“Leaving room for Jesus,” you quip softly, the joke tumbling out before you fully grasp its intention. Tommy chuckles warmly beside you, his laughter easing the tension slightly.

“Always been conservative, my brother,” he replies, eyes crinkling with amusement.

But your gaze lingers, held captive by Joel’s hand on the small of her back—just high enough to seem polite, respectful, yet undeniably intimate. His other hand clasps hers loosely, hesitant but protective. She moves closer, closing the gap until there’s barely space between their bodies. Dr. Bennett, without her usual clinical armor, is captivatingly radiant; her long, black hair spills down her shoulders like ink, her pale skin glowing softly in the low, golden light. Her dress—simple yet graceful—fits her figure effortlessly, exuding a quiet kind of elegance.

The air grows intensely thick when she tips her head up, her eyes bright with something soft and vulnerable. Joel meets her gaze, pinched brows easing, and you look away at your table. 

“Want another?” Tommy asks gently, blissfully unaware of the buzz spreading through you. It’s as if he turned away moments ago, unbothered, while your gaze remained fixed, caught in a painfully drunken fascination. 

“Sure, thanks,” you reply, already looking at the double doors for Maria. 

You sit with Tommy for what feels like an hour, nursing your second ale until the taste turns less bitter, more like something syrupy sweet. It slips across your tongue, loosening the grip on your thoughts, dulling the constant loop of everything you've done wrong. You don’t notice how warm your face has gotten until Tommy stands, offering a half-grin before crossing the room to chat with a group of men.

You’re left alone—just you and the buzzing quiet in your head. Eyes glancing around the room in a curious, innocent way. 

Time passes as you watch the room, sitting back in your chair, for once not aware of the eyes on you. You catch sight of Dina, perched beside Jesse at a high-top on the far side of the room. Your legs feel unsure as you stand—like the ground might sway—but you follow them anyway.

“I knew you’d come,” Dina beams, cheeks pink with the warmth. She’s got a glass of water in front of her and a half-finished plate of food.

“Your pitch was too good to refuse,” you say, the bottle sweating in your hand like it’s nervous for you.

“I have a way with words,” she grins, motioning towards an empty seat.

“Does she ever,” says a voice to her right—low, dry, and amused.

You notice the girl then. Same age as Dina, maybe younger. Short, reddish-brown hair tied up haphazardly, freckles like constellations across the bridge of her nose. She sits slightly hunched, like she’s trying to shrink herself down to something quieter. The opposite of Dina in every way.

“Ellie’s just mad I convinced her to come,” Dina says, her hand slipping casually onto Ellie's lean arm. 

You’ve seen Ellie before—once or twice, maybe at the Miller house. Quick greetings, in passing. She hadn’t said much then either. 

“Just because the trio’s becoming a quad doesn’t mean we should have any less fun,” Dina quips, tugging Jesse closer by the bicep.

“What fun is there to have if you’re not the life of the party?” Jesse leans into the table, making it rock slightly beneath his weight.

“I think she’s still the life of the party,” you offer, sliding into the conversation.

“At least someone agrees with me,” Dina grins, bumping her shoulder against Ellie’s. Ellie nearly chokes on her drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm, cheeks turning the same color as her hair.

From where you sit, you notice Ellie’s hand drifting casually over Dina’s thigh, fingers pressing gently—a subtle intimacy that leaves you quietly intrigued yet uncertain. Turning your gaze away, you focus instead on the double doors, the hinges worn with the ghosts of countless entrances and exits. But no Maria. 

“I brought the good stuff, I found it on patrol," Jesse murmurs, handing Ellie something just beyond your vision.

“Oh, let me smell it, please,” Dina whines playfully, knowing fully well she can't drink. You turn just in time to see Jesse teasingly pull a flask out of her reach.

“How about you?” Jesse extends the flask to you instead, pressing it insistently into your palm as Dina protests the crossing of her arms.

You lift it hesitantly, the metal cool against your fingers, and tip it cautiously to your lips. The liquid spills, rich and searing, a heated sweetness bursting vividly over your tongue and burning warmly down your throat. Your eyes widen involuntarily at the unexpected intensity, your senses fully awake.

Ellie watches you closely, an amused grin playing on her lips as she shares a knowing glance with the others.

“Never had whiskey before, huh?” She teases gently.

You shake your head, warmth blossoming at the tips of your ears and cheekbones. “No, but... there's a first time for everything.” Your smirk emerges naturally, lazily confident, free from the usual guarded effort of pretending ease or crafting friendliness. For the first time in forever, smiling doesn't feel like a conscious act—just an easy reaction to their genuine laughter. Their smiles widen warmly, and for a brief, luminous moment, you belong effortlessly with them, laughter tumbling out like it was always yours to give.

Through the laughter, from behind Jesse’s shoulder, your eyes focus one last time on the double doors to the rec hall. Maria walks in with Benji, already being greeted by those who surround the entrance. You feel a pull in your gut, or maybe that’s just the whiskey. It beckons you to stand, so you do, excusing yourself quietly as they continue to joke. 

Without thinking, your feet move across the room, colliding into people, mumbling half apologies in your wake. You needed to talk to Maria, and now felt as good as any time. You push the voice that says to walk away, just walk out and back to your room in the dining hall. Pretend you were never here. But you don’t, you walk straight for Maria, conversing in that diplomatic way that she does. All squared shoulders and serious features, only to have softening eyes. 

The small circle around Maria consists mainly of council members and some strays that want to say their greetings. 

Your one-track mind goes over the words you rehearsed. Why, why, why? 

You plan to wait your turn, to wait until the moment is right, but you find yourself speaking, no blurting out. Your words bleed over someone else's, and it worsens as their eyes find you in confusion. 

Your stomach churns, something acidic curling behind your ribs, and the words are out before you’ve even decided to speak. 

“I need to talk to you,” you blurt—too loud, too sudden. It cuts through the air like a dropped plate. A few heads turn as conversations falter and smiles drop. The music keeps playing, oblivious, tinny and small against the rising tension. You straighten your spine, tilt your chin the way you’ve practiced in the mirror, but your voice still sounds slurred at the edges. It’s obvious. It’s so obvious.

Maria turns at the sound of your voice, her expression neutral, polite to a fault. “Can it wait?” She asks, but there’s no real question in it. It’s a dismissal wrapped in a lovely gift bow.

“No,” you say too quickly, already shaking your head, as if that’ll make it seem more urgent. “No, it really can’t. I’ve been trying to find you all night—” 

“Now is not a great time,” Maria cuts in, a forced smile tight in her cheeks. “We’ll talk later,” she adds, voice dropping but not her smile. Maria angles herself to leave, walking a few paces ahead.

“I don’t want to talk later, ” you say, louder this time, following her. “I’ve been waiting to talk later for weeks. Just tell me why I can’t go back out. Just say it. Say it to my face.” Maria stops abruptly.

“I don’t trust you out there right now. We talked about this.” Maria says under her breath, hoping the others won’t hear. But you’re not quiet. Not anymore.

You see someone shift beside you, murmuring something as they step away. Another person follows, grabbing their drink. The little crowd around you peels back like you’re radioactive.

Maria awkwardly smiles, silently apologizing as they all evade the storm brewing. 

“I’m not gonna keep sitting around like a fucking—like a hurt little pet —while everyone else gets to—” you ramble, the room growing hotter by the second. 

Still, you press forward. “It’s not fair,” you add, voice cracking, desperation bleeding through. All the practiced words, how you wanted to come across differently, are thrown out the window. 

“I just—I need to know why. That’s all. That’s all I’m asking, Maria. Just tell me why I’m not—” Tears well in your eyes, desperate, hot tears that you will away.

“We can talk about this in the morning when you’re feelin’ better.” She says, sharply now, the warmth drained from her tone.

“Come on, let’s go outside—” Maria reaches for you.

“No,” you snap, pulling your arm back as she reaches for it. “Why don’t you say it here? Everyone’s listening anyway, right? Just go ahead and say it. You think I’m a liability, but I’m not the reason–”

“Stop,” Maria warns, low and tense now. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I’m already doing it,” you fire back.

“Then we’re done here.” She shakes her head, ignoring your protests as people part for her. 

You shake your head quickly, stumbling a step, your bad leg’s shoe catching on a chair leg with a loud scrape. The chair falls over, bringing the table toppling over, and empty glasses shattering. Eyes all over you, burning you, singeing you with their judgement. It feels like all too much, like this might be what sends you reeling. 

You move to follow Maria again as people scramble to clean up the glass, but a large hand clamps firmly around your upper arm. Not enough to bruise, but enough to stop you from bulldozing your way through people. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, not even your name, just a warning. And that in itself should stop you, like a child being scorned. You look up and see Joel. 

“That’s enough now.” His grip is solid as you attempt to pull free, his fingers burning your skin with their grip. It’s your doing, the way you pull from him like a wild mustang, only to stay rooted in his grasp. 

You yank your arm. “Get the fuck off me!” you snap. The words echo, sharper than anything else you've said all night. Silence rushes in like a vacuum. Everyone hears it. Everyone sees it.

And just like that, the people around you back away, like you’re infected.

You’re left standing beside Joel, breath shallow, your arm still half-raised, trembling with the aftershock of your anger. No one says a word. The silence after your outburst is somehow louder than the music still playing in the background.

Maria’s already out the door. Joel stands still, his jaw set. The crowd peels away, leaving you stranded in the middle of it, breathless and staggered. Your vision tunnels in splotches of black.

You push past Joel, your shoulder bumping his, the contact anchoring you just long enough to keep upright. 

The heat outside doesn’t help. The air smells like hay and dust and sweat, and the cicadas scream above you like the earth itself is wailing. They cry for you. Or maybe they mock you. 

Your feet drag. Your pulse is in your teeth as you clench your fists by your sides. The path home feels impossibly long, and the stars blur overhead, spinning slowly as you stumble forward, alone.

Chapter Text

Fourth of July—what a fucking joke.

Celebrating freedom in a world that barely had a pulse felt like dancing on a grave. Joel never cared much for patriotism, not even before the world split open. Not when fireworks still lit up the sky, not when Tommy signed his life away to a flag that never gave a damn.

Back then, he had bigger things to worry about—like whether the lights would stay on, or if Sarah’s shoes still fit. But now? He was a simple man with simple pleasures, one of them being his family.

So he found himself walking the neglected path from his home and to the church, where music spilled every time the double doors washed open. 

Here and there, people greeted him with easy warmth. Familiar faces, mile-wide smiles, hands outstretched to clasp his like they'd known him all their lives. They asked questions—about the job, about Ellie, about the weather, like they weren’t alive to see it themselves—and even when he answered with little more than a grunt or a nod, they laughed. Like they knew him. Like they saw him and didn’t mind the sharp edges.

It had taken Joel a long time to let it in, to believe it. But this town, this corner of the world left untouched, was his now. And if anything tried to tear it down, they’d meet a wrath so old and bone-deep it might as well have been divine.

Joel surveyed the room some time after he arrived, positioning himself at the bar. The stool next to Tommy was already taken—by you. He hadn’t noticed right away, but once he did, his eyes lingered longer than they should’ve.

You were mid-conversation with his brother, chin tilted slightly, the corners of your mouth curled in something close to polite amusement. You looked the same as you had the day he found you, draped limp across Callus’s back—only now, the blood had been scrubbed from your skin, and the firelight had returned color to your cheeks.

But the peace he’d seen in your sleep—pain-muted and unconscious—was gone. In its place, a different kind of stillness. Guarded. Braced. Like you were waiting for something to go wrong. To bolt when you needed, like a startled deer under a watchful hunter's gaze.

He didn’t mean to keep observing. But he did. 

Long enough for Amelia to step into view, her voice soft and sweet as she invited him to dance with her when a slow song began. He said yes. Not because he wanted to—but because saying no felt more complicated to explain.

Still, he accepted, clumsy and stiff like he had two left feet, hoping she'd take the hint. That he wasn’t her answer, nor her saving grace. Just didn’t want her thinking he could be that kind of man as she looked up at him with delicate doe eyes. The type you build a life with, the kind who brings calm. Because he’s never been a safe harbor, only ever the storm.

Some time later, standing in his younger brother's presence, along with a few other men, Joel surveyed the room once again. This time, landing on Ellie, sitting at a table with her friends and…you. 

“Nah, couldn’t figure out how to get the damn generator to kick over. Think she’s finally out for good.” The conversation ran on, ever so surface-level. They’d run out of things to talk about, so Joel stayed quiet as they spoke amongst each other.

“Ever since that storm hit the dam, power’s been on and off—outages every week. Shit’s unstable, it ain’t safe to rely on. And what happens when winter comes?“ Someone says, a man on the council, the type that doesn’t know how to keep work at work. Tommy nods along, leaving Joel to zone out. He wasn’t on the council, though Tommy begged him to, just didn’t feel right playing God like that. Felt like another burden for him to take on, and he swore after Ellie, he'd stop picking up strays.

“No.” Joel turns instinctively.

The single word cuts through the air like a whipcrack. Off in the distance, you’re no longer at the table—you’re standing in front of Maria now, posture stiff, voice lost to the music. Tension pulls taut across your shoulders, and for everyone’s safety, he watched. His eyes narrow, brows drawn tight, glass already placed among a passing table. No one knew what you were capable of—not really. And Joel, he never took chances.

By the time the thought finishes forming, his feet are already moving. Before he can stop himself, his hand closes around your arm, forcing you to stumble back.

You’d stormed off after telling him off—fire in your eyes, sharp enough to draw blood—and Joel failed to understand why. Why were you fighting so hard to get back on patrol? It's not like you were good at it anyway. It was the most basic route, one he'd taken Ellie on when she turned fifteen. Everyone hated that patrol, but not you. Not after everything. Not after Mia. Not after the river that almost killed you. Especially not after stumbling into Jackson, half-dead, with a story that didn’t make sense.

Joel remembered that day all too well. It was the start of his shift; he’d been on patrol along the southern wall. Watching through the scope of his rifle as your figure wavered in the distance, bloodied, barely standing. Finger near the trigger, he almost took that shot, but he didn't.

Keeping tabs was never his strong suit, but he did so sporadically through Tommy. A question here, a remark there—curiosity disguised as caution. Joel was incapable of trusting, especially not someone who claims they can’t remember how they wound up here. But Maria and Tommy swore you were harmless. But Joel never let his guard down. 

“Must’ve had too much to drink,” Tommy mutters, brushing Joel’s shoulder just as the room starts to pulse with life again—like the awkward silence never happened.

“Shouldn’t be drinkin’ at all,” Joel rasps.

“Don’t be like that,” Tommy says, low but firm. “She’s been through enough.”

Joel shifts, studies his brother’s face like it’s some puzzle he missed a piece of. After tonight? After yelling at your wife? And now he’s out here, defending her? Where was his loyalty?

“Doesn’t make it right,” Joel states, jaw taut.

Tommy sharply exhales through his nose. “You of all people should understand drownin’ your sorrows.”

Joel doesn’t shrink back; he'd be damned if Tommy ripped him a new one. “At least I remembered mine. You drink to forget. She’s drinkin’ to disappear.”

“She ain’t you, Joel. She ain’t built like you. You can’t punish her for breakin’ different.” Tommy’s voice follows him, low and steady. Funny—he used to sound just like Joel. Sharp edges, quick temper, impulsive. But time and a little power will do that to a man. Turns out, running a commune softens your judgment. Or maybe it just teaches you when to shut the hell up.

Joel doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He stays for another half hour before calling it a night, shouldering past the cluster of voices, through the hall, out into the open air.

The path home is familiar, but nothing about him feels settled.

Had he done the right thing in intervening? Was it his place at all? He said he didn’t want to play God, yet he’d stopped you. Had saved your life all those months ago, yet he couldn't figure out why. Joel recalls your frail arm in his hand, and how he’d quickly judged your outburst. 

A thought that guts him a little more than it should flickers to life: Maybe he’s one to judge. 

Maybe whatever anger lives in you—whatever made you snap, or wander, or flinch like that—is the same thing burning behind his ribs. The same beast, just wearing a softer face.

With a scoff and a shake of his head, he digs his hands deeper into his coat. Like he can bury the thought before it finishes forming.

But Joel was never one to let things go.

You blink awake slowly, flat on your back, with no memory of drifting off the night before. The ceiling greets you, cracked plaster barely concealed by uneven patches, shadowed in flickering shades of amber.

You blink again, battling the disorientation rolling through your mind like waves. The air feels stagnant, heavy with the scent of dust and rotting floorboards. The bed beneath you is too firm, like someone switched it out while you slept, a foreign firmness pressing sharply into your spine.

Brows knitting together, you push yourself onto your elbows. This isn’t your room in Jackson. There’s no familiar twin bed, no desk nudged tight against the wall, drawers empty and waiting. Your pulse quickens, anxiety nibbling at the edges of your consciousness.

Yet your body recognizes something about this room. Wallpaper curls softly at the edges, flickering as if illuminated by candlelight. A lone window, half-covered, peers onto a street that refuses to come into clear view. Shakily, you rise to your feet, knees unsteady beneath your weight. The room pulses with warmth, the sunset outside spilling fiery oranges and bruised purples onto walls, colors melting downward, pooling like spilled paint in shadowed corners. Heat curls the wallpaper further, fragile edges crisping.

An uneasy feeling blooms deep in your chest, tight and heavy like an over-tightened thread. It crawls upward, weaving a cold warning along your spine, whispering threats without words.

You turn toward the window, desperate for clarity. Still, your vision blurs, refusing to settle until you retreat back into the familiarity of the room. So you shift your attention instead to the door, standing silently, ominously patient in the corner shadows.

You step forward carefully, bare feet soundless against worn carpet. Reaching out, your fingers close around the brass knob—icy, untouched for years, forgotten by warmth.

The instant you grasp it, a violent pounding erupts from the other side, shattering the silence. Your hand recoils sharply to your chest, the chill of brass burning your skin with a phantom heat. The pounding grows furious, relentless, wood splintering high up near the frame. Stumbling backward, tears spill down your cheeks, your knees buckle, and you sink onto the carpet, pressing your palms desperately against your temples.

Color bleeds away swiftly, warmth replaced by a ghostly, muted blue. The pounding escalates, echoing through your skull, blurring the line between the room and your throbbing head. You clamp your hands tightly over your ears, whispering broken pleas for the noise to cease. The door shakes violently, each blow fracturing your mind as if it's your own skull being cracked open. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

When your eyes flutter open again, the pounding fades into a dull, lingering throb. The room settles into a fragile quiet, broken only by a soft, persistent knock at the untouched door. You're in your room in Jackson. Exhaling a shaky breath, you push the thin, twisted sheets from your legs and drag yourself toward the sound. Hesitation grips you for a fleeting second, fingers hovering uncertainly over the cold knob, but you wrench it open anyway.

Dina jolts slightly, eyes wide with surprise at your sudden appearance, her lips forming a startled little "o" before smoothing into an easy smile as she takes in your disheveled state.

"Good morning, sunshine," she says gently, adjusting the straps of her pack with casual grace.

You rub lingering sleep from your eyes, consciousness stubbornly sharpening. It couldn’t be any later than seven, the morning still tinged with the pale hush of dawn.

"Hi," you croak out softly, your voice roughened by sleep and the dull, merciless pounding of a hangover.

“I brought you breakfast,” Dina chirps, raising a parcel wrapped neatly in parchment. Her expression quickly shifts, eyes assessing your disheveled state. “But there’s a catch—you have to put pants on. Actually, scratch that—a shower first. Then pants. Meet me outside, preferably before you’re catastrophically late for your first shift.”

You blink slowly, leaning heavily against the doorframe, her words filtering sluggishly through your foggy brain. “That’s today?” you ask, suddenly conscious of the drafty morning air brushing against your bare thighs in your sleep shorts. Vulnerability flickers through you briefly, but it dissolves quickly; it's only Dina, after all.

“Yes, today,” Dina sighs, mock-exasperation gentle around the edges. “You’re lucky I’m such a saint.” She turns on her heel, shaking her head with partial judgment as you close the door softly behind her.

The shower is brutal and ice-cold, a jarring shock that helps soothe your throbbing head. Shivering, skin prickled and raw, you towel yourself off and dig through the drawer of folded clothes, settling reluctantly on yesterday’s worn jeans and a faded black t-shirt. Boots remain abandoned at the door in favor of sneakers, and you're out the door, meeting Dina in front of the building. 

You never wanted this. Never wanted to be shunted off to this project like some kind of consolation prize. You didn’t want to be benched when you were just gaining your footing on patrol. Maybe it was ego; maybe pure stupidity on your part. Either way, you had something to prove—to Maria, to yourself, to the memory of Mia. And being relegated to the unwanted table stung deeply enough; making a spectacle of it was worse. 

“So, on a scale of one to ten—how embarrassed should I be?” you mutter, teeth sinking into your breakfast sandwich as you let Dina steer you through the quiet morning streets. You usually wouldn’t eat breakfast, but the hunger this morning was overwhelming.

Dina feigns innocence, eyebrows arching high. “Embarrassed about what?” 

“Don’t,” you groan softly, crushing the sandwich wrapper tightly before shoving it deep into your jeans pocket. “Please don’t make me relive it.”

“No one even noticed,” Dina offers gently, her voice soft with reassurance. However, the memory feels raw, still scraping painfully at your pride. The stares, the murmured judgments—how your voice had cracked, sharp and too loud, as you snapped back at Maria. It wasn’t meant to be hostile, but the damage had been done.

The heaviness in your eyes pushes Dina further. “Seriously,” she insists, her tone firm but comforting. “There’ve been far worse moments. No one’s gonna remember yours.”

“You’re a fantastic liar, you know that?” you sigh. Dina stays quiet for once as you halt before a neglected home, a ghost of splintered beams and flaking paint. It stands weary and skeletal, vacant windows staring back like forlorn eyes.

Dina climbs the porch steps, each creak protesting her weight. She pauses, breath hitching slightly, hand resting casually on her hip as if she's not balancing on wood begging to crumble. “This is it,” she announces, glancing back with an optimistic grin that feels entirely misplaced.

“It’s what, exactly?” You’re unable to hide the skepticism rippling beneath your curiosity. You can’t fathom why this structure hasn't already met its merciful end. 

“Gonna fix her up. House a family of six,” Dina says, brushing her palm against one of the peeling beams, flecks of paint sticking stubbornly to her skin. She rubs her hand absently on her pants, chuckling softly like it’s just another Tuesday.

“You seriously think this place can hold people safely?” Your disbelief colors every syllable as you gingerly test a step. It groans beneath your tentative weight, warped wood flexing dangerously close to collapse.

“It will,” Dina asserts firmly, pushing open the unlocked door. Shadows swallow her quickly, leaving you hesitating at the threshold. Taking a breath that feels heavier than it should, you step inside after her, eyes struggling to adapt to the gloomy interior as the door clicks shut behind you.

Muted voices drift from deeper within, drawing you forward through the dimness. You follow the murmur into the kitchen, where you discover a small cluster of figures huddled close.

Six people stand scattered around a table marked with blueprints and hand-drawn maps, rings stained into the wood. It smells faintly of dust, wood shavings, and like someone hadn’t opened a window in a decade. 

Then someone speaks.

A voice that doesn’t need to rise in the already quiet room. Low and weathered, it scrapes through the quiet like a rasp dragged across sanded wood. It reverberates against the old paneling, lodges itself in your chest. You recognize it instantly—even if you haven’t heard it much.

“We’ll need to reinforce the floor joists before we bring in insulation,” he says without looking up. Joel.

You blink, heart snagging on something sharp—like a rusted nail ripping through soft denim. Joel stands with his profile to you, sleeves shoved to his elbows, gray threading through the dark of his hair like a secret he stopped hiding. A heaviness pools at the base of your neck, sliding down your spine. Dread, or something like it.

He was just a man, and yet to you he seemed inescapable. Everywhere you looked, Joel seemed to be.

You remember last night in fractured pieces. The blur of it, the weight of your words. But Joel's eyes—his eyes were clear. Dark, bare, and terrifying in their honesty. You saw their warning, even with the few words he said. Now, he looks harmless. Almost kind in a way. Smiling faintly as he adds, “Couple’a new faces. Show ’em the ropes. Watch out for the stairs, damn near lost my foot last week.” 

A round of soft laughter flits through the room, and you almost join in but stop yourself short. Dina bumps your arm with her shoulder, and as everyone files out of the kitchen, you’re left standing alone.

Joel straightens to his full height, the motion slow and unhurried. He tucks a pencil behind his ear with those hands—hands that look like they’ve built and broken in equal measure. Scarred and healed over along the knuckles, yet still capable. You stay quiet, arms folding across your chest, before you even realize you’ve done it. The gesture small, and somehow already defensive.

He turns just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, not a full look, just a flicker of his eyes.

“Mornin’,” is all he says.

Not cold. Not warm. Just enough to let you know he saw you—still sees you—and he’s not done making up his mind.

“Morning,” you reply, but it comes out clipped, and he hears it. Of course he does.

Joel turns entirely and watches you for a beat longer than feels polite. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll say more. When you don’t, he raises an eyebrow—not quite skeptical, not quite amused. More annoyed by the look of it.

“Feelin’ more like yourself today?” he asks, voice low, casual on the surface. But there’s a consequence behind the words. A test you don’t know you’re taking, one you might as well have already failed once you walked through those doors.

“Never better,” you meet his eyes, and they’re just as vivid, watching as he mirrors your crossed arms. Though his stance appears more threatening. “Thanks for asking.”

“Great, you’re on junk duty today,” his response is clipped. ​​You catch the twitch of muscle beneath rolled sleeves—braided tension coiled tight across his forearms. 

“You got it.” The words come out slow, practiced. Just another line in a play you’re ready to exit. Another reason you wanted out of this damn hole—and he knew it. Could probably see it all over your face.

Of course, he stuck you with trash duty. The easiest thing to hand off when you want someone gone. Out of sight, out of mind. Especially after last night, when you butted heads. You assume he hadn’t liked that at all, so maybe this was punishment. Perhaps he’d already written you off—filed you under liability. A fuck-up. The kind of person who ruins things without meaning to.

Or that was his whole deal. That brooding, quiet superiority type people somehow found charming. Judgment dressed up in plaid.

You pivot, inclined to find Dina and figure out the rest. But before you can make it to the door—

“Next time,” he calls out, still not looking at you, pencil now in hand, “wear your boots. No sneakers.”

______

Feeling more like yourself today?

The question echoes in your head as you drag a cart piled with scrap wood across the yard, wheels jamming in the dirt, the load heavy and stubborn. It’s destined for kindling when winter rolls back around—but right now, under this sun, it feels like torture.

The muscles in your shoulders burn. Every bump sends a jolt through your thigh—the one still not right, that still bears the healing pinkish scar. You grit your teeth and push through, swiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The morning turned to afternoon without mercy. The heat hangs high as the sun hits its peak. 

After what feels like a lifetime of back-and-forth, Dina emerges from inside and steps off the porch and into your orbit, holding out a jug of water like salvation. You grab it without thinking and drink deep—heat and hangover swirling into one dizzy fog behind your eyes.

Her hair’s tied up now, wisps sticking to her face, her light jacket long gone. She’s in just a tank, stretched over her belly, staying tucked in the shade where the boards creak beneath her feet.

“Wouldn’t want you passing out from heatstroke on your first day,” she says, eyeing your flushed face and the sunburn rising pink across the bridge of your nose.

“I’m fine,” you mutter between gulps, breath catching as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You’re not sure if you mean it.

“Everyone starts with trash duty,” Dina offers, sitting on the porch’s top step like she’s used to watching things from above. “You won’t be stuck here long.”

Her words don't stop it from feeling like a sentence. Like Joel had appointed himself judge, and you were serving time for breaking laws he fabricated.

The rational part of you knows this was Maria’s way of throwing you a lifeline—something simple, something solid and safe after everything. But there’s another part, the one that had shown itself last night, buried and blistered, that resents it. That seethes at being handed the worst job on the hottest day of the summer. You didn’t want to be here in the first place, so why did it feel like Joel was punishing you for it?

What gave him the right to decide what you deserved?

You barely knew the man. And he sure as hell knows you.

“I don’t know about that,” you murmur, biting your tongue a little too late. You shouldn’t be saying anything—especially not with Dina here. Dina, who was Ellie’s friend. Ellie, who was Joel’s daughter. There were invisible lines you didn’t fully understand, but you felt them all the same.

“What do you mean?” Dina asks, tilting her head, eyes curious beneath the fall of dark hair. She leans her elbows on her knees like she’s settling in.

You sigh and sit, even though you half expect Joel to materialize out of thin air just to tell you to get back to work.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly. “I just… I don’t think I belong here.”

You’re not quite sure what you mean. Was it working on the project? Or was it Jackson?

A serious expression writes itself across her gentle face, and her hand rests lightly on your shoulder. Her mouth presses into a line as she thinks, as if she’s weighing a thousand words and choosing only the ones that matter.

“I get it,” she says finally, voice soft but sure. Not pitying—just real.

A moment passes. The breeze moves through the trees, chilling your sweat-damp skin.

“It took me a while to get used to it, the people, the expectation, everything.” She sits there, looking out into the street. 

“Yeah,” You nod, almost out of reflex, eyes fixed on some vague point in the dirt. 

Dina comes back from the far edges of her mind and looks over her shoulder towards the open front door. 

“And Joel,” she looks at you like she understands, like she knows of the tension between you two. “He can be a hardass, but he usually means well.”

You’re not sure if you believe her, but she hasn’t led you astray yet, so you nod. “I’ll keep that in mind,”

“Just give this a chance,” she smiles, “plus, you get to work with me, well, you’ll do most of the work, I’m just here to-” 

“Boss people around and hammer nails,” you finish and smile, feeling her bump your shoulder with hers. 

“I knew I liked you,” Dina grabs the railing to stand, using you as a crutch. She wanders back inside, and you go to stand, wiping your legs from the dust with your gloved hands. 

Maybe you were looking at this the wrong way. Perhaps it wasn’t about fairness; it was about shutting your mouth, keeping your head down, and doing the damn work. That’s how you’d get back on track, how you’d get control again. 

So, for the remainder of the day, you haul the trash until every part of you aches from the last month of inactivity. You keep at it until the sweat stings your eyes, until your feet pulse with every step.

When the day thins out and the porch is clear of any scraps they bring down, you sweep it anyway from the dust. 

You keep sweeping until the porch boards are bare and the light stretches long and gold across the dirt. No one comes to check your work, not that cleaning garbage was much of an accomplishment. Because what else was there? You knew Maria wouldn’t come find you—not after last night. She’d hear from Joel first, and what he told her would seal your fate. And that thought alone makes something in you tighten. 

So, after your first shift, when you walk home alone, you decide you’ll try. Even if it meant swallowing what little pride you had left. Try, even if it meant nothing. 

Because it’s the only thing left that still feels like a choice.