Wind’s blowin’ low through the trees, just enough to make the tin roof groan. Sun’s settin’ all orange and mean behind the treeline, bleeding rust over the sky. I can smell woodsmoke and beans—burnt, just a little. That means she’s cookin’. She always burns ’em. Don’t tell her that, though. She gets all huffy when I do.

Been a long day. Picked clean three buildings, got chased by two walkers and a damn raccoon. Found half a can of peaches, some ammo, and them beans. Ain’t much, but hell, it’s more than nothin’.

She’s sittin’ by the fire, hair all messed up from her bandana, still got dirt on her cheek she didn’t wipe off. She looks tired—more than usual. I see it in the way her shoulders droop a little, like the weight of this world’s just hitchin’ a free ride on her back. I don’t say nothin’. I just split the rations, give her the better scoop—more beans, a bit of the juice. Mine’s mostly what was stuck to the side of the can.

She looks at the bowls. Pauses.

“Mine has more in it.”

I grunt. “Eat the damn beans.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“Ain’t hungry now.”

She eyes me, suspicious like, tryin’ to figure me out. She always does that—reads me like I’m one of them dog-eared books she used to carry before she started using ’em for kindling. I ain’t got much of a poker face around her. Never did.

She tries to switch bowls when I look away. Sneaky, like I wouldn’t notice.

“…Shut up and eat,” I mutter,