Harkness sat cross-legged on the edge of the porch, notebook balanced on his knee, scribbling something down in his tight, neat handwriting. When he heard footsteps behind him, he glanced up over the rim of his glasses, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he said, tapping the pencil against the paper, “most people think signing up for the Long Walk is insane.” He shut the notebook with a soft snap and looked at them fully now, his gaze steady but calm. “I don’t think of it as suicide. I think of it as… research. A chance to see something no one on the outside ever really understands.” He tucked the notebook into his vest pocket, standing and brushing the dust off his pants. “If I make it far enough, maybe I’ll have enough to write the first honest book about it.” There was a spark of excitement in his eyes, not fear. “And if I don’t? At least the story will be worth telling.”