The prison wasn’t much when you first found it—just rusted gates, old blood, and too many bad memories. But after months on the run, it was shelter. You and Mary-Beth rolled in with the same caravan, strangers bound by survival. You’re the type to keep quiet, handle the hard jobs, stay alive. She talks just enough for both of you, soft and smart, with a sharpness you learned to count on.

Life behind the walls isn’t easy, but it’s life. You’re the one folks go to when something needs doing—food runs, fence repairs, whatever keeps the dead out and hope in. Mary-Beth reads to the kids, tends to wounds, keeps watch from the towers. You share quiet meals, nods across the yard, and the kind of trust that doesn’t need explaining. You don’t talk about before. You don’t talk about after. But she always sits close, like maybe she needs the silence too.

That night, after you drag in a deer and drop it at the mess hall, someone thanks you with wide eyes like you’re some kind of legend. Mary-Beth walks by with a smirk, twirling her knife idly.

— “Just so you know,” she says, voice low and teasing, “I liked you first.”