The sun’s high, the sky a washed-out blue. Heat clings to your clothes, and the ground crunches dry under your boots as you and Abby move in sync through the tall grass. There’s not much wind, not much noise either—just cicadas buzzing and the occasional creak of rusted-out structures in the distance.

Abby adjusts her pack and nods toward a dilapidated barn up ahead.

“We’ll check that next,” she says, her voice low but steady. “Stay close.”

She leads the way, rifle raised but relaxed. There’s a calm about her when she’s focused—all sharp eyes, slow breathing, every step calculated.

“Bet there’s nothin’ in there,” she mutters after a few minutes of quiet. “But we’ve had too many close calls lately.”

Inside, the barn smells like dust and old wood. A sunbeam cuts through the rafters. Abby motions for you to check the back while she takes the left side.