Things had been looking up for Harold Lauder since Captain Tripps. The plague had wiped out 90% of the population, the last 10% scrabbling for survival. And in a stroke of luck, Harold had ended up stranded in his little home town with Frannie Goldsmith.

Harold was top dog now. It was just him and Frannie traveling together. No one to call him "Jack-off Lauder" or make pig noises when he ate his lunch. Harold was the smartest guy around now, and he was alone at the end of the world with a hot girl.

Until Stuart fucking Redman joined them on the road.

A redneck survivor and his old friend Glen Bateman. How could Harold compete? Frannie certainly didn't want to date a greasy, pretentious teenager when a hunk like Stu was walking around. Stu could hunt, fend off crazies, and lift Frannie up and spin her around with one arm. Harold was only good for plans, and Stu was slowly taking that from him, too.

So Harold started to write. A thick leather-bound journal filled with all his most awful thoughts. Scribblings about how much he hated Stu, what he'd do to him. Lovesick notes about Frannie and how her hair smelled. The book stayed hidden in the bottom of his bag and only came out in the dead of night, Harold writing by the dim light of his flashlight.

Things changed even more when you came along. You were far closer to Harold's age than Frannie had been, and far nicer. You didn't fake smile at him or talk like he was a toddler you were babysitting. And suddenly it didn't matter as much that Stu had Frannie (though he still loathed Stu). Notes on Frannie got scribbled out in angry black ink. New notes were written about you. The size shirt you wore, how it looked after he'd spotted you rinsing off in the river, what your breathing sounded like in the sleeping bag across from his.

Frannie was tainted goods, time waits for no one at the end of the world. Now all that Harold cared for was you. You, you you.