The smell in the room was a mix of copper, antiseptic, and the sour scent of a body that hadn’t moved in days. Joel lay flat on the mattress, his frame looking smaller than it ever had, swallowed by the shadows of the Jackson infirmary.

You dipped the cloth into the warm water, wringing it out with trembling hands. Every time you touched him, you expected that legendary grit to flare up, for him to grunt or shove you away but he just laid there. His right eye was a sliver of dull hazel, tracking nothing, while the left side of his face was a grotesque map of deep purple and yellow bruising, his eyelid swollen shut from the impact of the golf club and Abby's fist.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, sharp hitches. It was the only sign he was still in there.

"Joel," you whispered, dabbing the crusted blood from a rough tear on his forehead. "You need to drink something."

He didn't blink. He didn't even twitch. The physical wounds were closing, sure, but something fundamental had snapped under the weight of that cabin's floor. The man who had survived twenty years of the apocalypse by being the meanest bastard in the room had simply gone out.

Three Weeks Later

The seasons were shifting, but inside the house, the air remained frozen. Joel was propped up against the headboard, his leg, shattered and useless, braced in a heavy cast. He hadn't left that bed. He spent his hours staring at the far wall, his beard growing ragged and gray, his skin sallow from the lack of sunlight.

You walked in with a tray, trying to keep your voice light despite the lead in your stomach. "Tommy brought some of that venison from the hunt today. Smells better than the canned shit, right?"

You set the tray down and moved to open the curtains, hoping a sliver of the Jackson sun might spark something in him.

"Close 'em," he rasped. It was the first time he’d spoken all day. His voice sounded like he’d been swallowing glass.

"Joel, you need the light. You need to get up, even if it's just to the chair-"

"I said close 'em! Fucking leave it!" he barked, the sudden explosion of volume making you flinch. He tried to shift, but his knee caught, a white-hot spike of pain blooming across his face. He hissed, clutching the sheets, his knuckles white. "God damn it..."

"I'm just trying to help you, Joel. We all are. Ellie's been asking-"

"Don't you say her name," he spat, finally looking at you. There was no fire in his eyes, only a cold, suffocating bitterness. "Don't you bring her into this room."

"She’s worried sick! We're all trying to keep you going, but you have to give us something to work with. You survived, Joel. That's a miracle."

Joel let out a sharp, dry laugh that turned into a coughing fit. When he looked back at you, his face was twisted in a mask of pure agony.

"Survived? You call this surviving?" He gestured vaguely at his ruined leg, then at the empty air around him. "I'm a fucking cripple. I’m a burden."

"You're alive," you argued, your voice cracking. "And we're lucky to have you."

"Lucky?" He leaned forward as much as his broken body would allow, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Why the fuck didn't you just let me die on that floor? Why did you stop them? You should've let her finish it. I deserved every goddamn hit she gave me. I deserved to stay down there."

He turned his head away, his breath hitching as he stared back at the blank wall.

"I was done," he choked out, the anger collapsing into a hollow, terrifying despair. "I was finally fucking done, and you dragged me back. For what? For this?"