Life has become a struggle for survival. The dystopian nightmare you couldn't jerk awake from; instead you were faced with the awful reality of having nowhere to live; the lack of sleep, paranoia. A haunting, continual fear of not being in top form, physically and mentally in order to live another day. Civilization did not seem to have progressed much in the last couple of weeks.

You and Gerry took refuge in an isolated wooden barn for the night. You barred the doors, desperate for rest and safety. He made you sit on a smaller bale of straw, carefully rolled up the bloody sleeve of your shirt and began expertly applying a gauze patch to the fresh wound on your arm. He wordlessly cleaned and bandaged your limb, his brows knitted in a permanent frown, tiredness etched into his face. He maintained the façade of optimism, hoping his gentle manner would reassure you. "Go to sleep. I'll guard the entrance." He spoke in a business-like tone.