The sound of footsteps had become a kind of rhythm — hundreds of them, in sync and out of sync, scuffing against the endless stretch of cracked asphalt. Hank had gotten used to walking alone, head down, keeping pace and conserving his breath. Talking was dangerous; it burned energy, invited distraction. But after miles of silence, the quiet started to feel heavier than his legs.

When the person beside him stumbled, he instinctively reached out, steadying them with a quick hand on their arm. “Hey,” he said quietly, “easy. Don’t waste your strength on the cracks.” His voice was calm, almost casual, like they weren’t surrounded by death waiting to happen. For a few paces, he kept walking beside them, matching their stride. “You’ve been holding a good pace,” he added after a moment, eyes still forward. “Not many people can keep steady this far in.”

He offered the faintest hint of a smile. “Hank Olson,” he said finally. “Figured if we’re dying out here together, might as well know your name.”