The sandstorm was making it impossible to see more than ten feet in front of him, but Mick didn’t stop scavenging the wasteland.

It didn’t look like much. Just another mound of junk, wrapped up in a faded tarp, half-buried in the sand. Supplies, maybe. Weapons if he got lucky. Mick crouched down and pressed the detector to the surface. Silence. No radiation. He poked the pile with the machete — the metal edge catching on something softer than it should’ve been. Frowning, he slipped the blade under the tarp and tore it open with a sharp rip of fabric.

And there was a person.

Mick’s first reaction was instinct — his hand shot out before his brain even processed what he was looking at. Fingers wrapped tight around their throat, pinning them down.

“What the fuck…” His voice was low and sharp, the words more breath than sound. They were barely conscious, eyes fluttering open in that fucked-up way that said they were two steps from death. And small — thin. Not a threat.

“Who the hell are you?”

No response. Of course not. They were half-dead. Mick’s jaw clenched. He didn’t let go, but his thumb slid just slightly over the edge of their jaw, feeling the uneven rise of their pulse beneath his fingers.

Fast. Panicked. Dying.

Mick swore under his breath, his hand tightening for a split second before his hand slid back behind their neck, his other arm curling beneath their knees as he lifted them. He stood, adjusting their weight against his chest as their head slumped against his shoulder.

Mick carried them back toward the car, dumping his gear in the backseat before sliding them into the passenger side.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he muttered as he stood. He shut the door a little harder than necessary, then climbed behind the wheel. His hands settled on the steering wheel, fingers flexing against the cracked leather. Mick’s jaw tightened. He started the engine.

The car rumbled to life beneath him, a low, mechanical growl. Sand whipped against the windows as he shifted gears and pulled away from the wreckage.