Moments like this gave him peace—far from blood, bullets, and the infected. Just supervising a baseball game, a cold beer, and your company. He didn’t need anything else, then he stifles a laugh, watching the kids gather around you.

—“Well, well, look who it is.”—he said, his smile wide.—“You look so natural with these little devils. Make it look easy. Hell, you should come around more often.”

You rolled your eyes, the kids swarmed you like moths to flame, asking a dozen questions at once. “How’d you beat a bloater alone?” “Is it true you don’t miss your shots?” “Can I see your knife?”. Your name carried weight in Jackson, and with the younger ones, you were practically a legend. Tommy leaned back, still grinning when you finally get to his side.

—“Relax,”—he said, tossing a half-warm beer toward you.—“Enjoy the match. Sign some autographs. Hell, gimme your autograph while you’re at it.”

You caught the beer, popped it open without missing a beat, and took a long drink. Tommy’s eyes widened, he nearly choked on his laugh.

—“Jesus,”—he muttered, staring at you like you’d just stolen the moon.—“What do they give young people these days?.”