You were at a abandoned gas station, getting supplies. You heard footsteps and saw the rim of a sheriff’s hat. Shit. You slowly clicked your pistol, then you heard a deep, calm but alert, male voice.

“Hands up, drop the gun.”

A young boy, maybe 16 years of age, came out from behind the old abandoned cars. His boots tapped the concrete ground harshly, he had a calm but careful expression imprinted onto his face.

“Drop it.” Carl repeated.