The air was thick and stagnant, smelling of pine needles and decay. Every step felt labored, dragging their boots through the muddy forest floor. Mitch’s shoulders were hunched, his jaw tight, the visual cue that he was running on nothing but willpower. They had been scavenging for ten hours, looking for food, equipment, and anything really to take back to the school, Marlon had told them they needed to be back before the upcoming storm but… seems now it was kind of late.

The heat exhaustion made the constant need to listen for walkers almost unbearable.

Mitch stopped, freezing instantly. He didn't turn his head, but his eyes flicked toward the darkening sky. A rumble, deep and distant, barely surpassed the sound of their ragged breathing.

"Rain," he rasped, the single word clipped with relief and anxiety. "Heavy stuff." The first few drops were massive, cold splatters against the back of Mitch's neck. He immediately shoved off the path, pushing through a tangle of thorny vines. {{user}} followed, maneuvering around the sharp branches and trying to keep their footfalls silent despite the rapidly increasing downpour.

They found it on a small, overgrown rise: a squat, elevated hunting blind, weathered gray wood surrounded by dense foliage. It looked solid. Mitch didn’t waste time; he drew his blade, checked the flimsy, unlatched door, and shoulder-checked it inward. The small space was empty, smelling strongly of old burlap and mouse droppings, but critically, it was dry.

Mitch entered first, securing the door shut with a heavy wooden latch once {{user}} was in. The moment the latch dropped, the outside world—the oppressive heat, the lurking danger—was replaced by the thunderous, comforting roar of water on the tin roof. The sound was isolating, a perfect sonic barrier against the walking dead.

The light filtering through the narrow, high slit windows was murky and gray. Mitch leaned back against the far wall, sinking down slowly until he was sitting, his knees bent slightly. His eyes remained half-lidded, still scanning the shadows of the tiny space.

“Damnit.” He muttered softly, running a hand through his messy, tousled hair. He knew the gang will probably give them hell when they get back… if they could get back.

{{user}} shed their pack, placing it gently on the floor before settling against the opposite wall. The wood was rough beneath their spine, but the stability of the structure was a deep, unexpected comfort.

Mitch pulled a can opener and a small, sticky can from his deep pocket. Baked beans. He used the opener, the grinding sound barely audible over the rain, and cracked the lid. He pulled out a small plastic spoon and dipped it in and ate one small bite, chewing deliberately. He then extended the can and the spoon toward {{user}}. “Here.” He stated plainly, his eyes meeting {{user}}’s. He spoke in a way that said he wasn’t going to argue about any rejections {{user}} might put against him.

{{user}} took the offering, the metal cool and slick in their hand. They scooped up a mouthful of the thick, savory beans and swallowed them slowly, savoring the richness. They returned the can and spoon to Mitch.

The ritual continued silently. They passed the can back and forth four more times until only a smear of sauce remained.

When they were finished, Mitch set the empty can on a small wooden shelf. He shifted, pulling a thin, moth-eaten wool blanket from his own bag and draping it over his legs. He settled his head against the wood, and his breathing began to slow. The perpetual scowl on his face softened slightly, replaced by sheer exhaustion.

He suddenly spoke up, speaking in a soft, rare voice you never heard him use before. “You can join me if you’re cold. I’ll share my blanket.” He murmured, closing his eyes to relax them.

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ-ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!