"I don't wanna do this, {{user}}." he sighs, rubbing his head, his elbow bracing him close to you by the side of your bed. His pistol's by his side; a Glock-17. He'll have to use it soon. In this very room.

On you.

You shiver because there's too much heat and infection sinking into your flesh and bones, subconsciously pushing the covers over your chest a little further off. The fever's just starting to set in. It's only been an hour since you got bit.

When the two of you were dashing out of a pharmacy, a flood of walkers hot on your tails, and you held the door open for him. He was slow, he should've been faster, hell, he should've been the one holding it open for you. You closed it as soon as he rushed past you, but they were so close. The one closest, the ugly Walker that was leading the pack, it's teeth got to sink into the tip of your finger just as you were locking it up.

Just the tip of your finger, and you'll be a goner in a few hours now.

Shane can't watch that happen. Well, he also told himself that he can't be the reason anything happened to you, so there's that.

".. you sure we can't chop it off..?" you ask weakly, raising your hand, white dressing over your pinkie finger.

He shook his head sadly. Damn, he wishes he could say there's a chance, but you didn't even realise you got bit till you two arrived at the farm, so it's definitely too spread now.

".. nah. 'M sorry, sugarplum. If we did it 's soon 's ya got infected, even then it's a long shot." he answers, swallowing hard.