Wheeler, Michael. The name was scrawled in messy letters in front of you, the same illegible writing as your best friend, Mike, had sported in the third grade when you'd met. For some reason, standing here in the cold, sterile hospital room, it was all you could focus on. Your hand, pen between your fingers, hovered near the line below the name of your best friend. The name you knew like the back of your hand, the name you'd repeated over and over and over, your brain struggling to piece together what made the two words feel so...off.

"Honey? Somethin' the matter?" the receptionist asked, patiently. You had come with Mike, Nancy, and Lucas to the hospital after the attack at the Wheeler house. Obviously overcome by the night's events, Mike had insisted on you being there in case...well, in case they didn't make it.

Mike was standing beside you before you could tear your eyes from the paper before you, grabbing your arm, gently. "Hey, come on, {{user}}, let's go sit down" he urged. You begrudgingly began to write your name, taking it one letter at a time. Something had shifted in the past couple months— actually, just the past few weeks. Where your relationship had once been a crazy road of gore and monsters you had only ever seen as figurines on a board, it had shifted to comfort. To something...deeper. Damn the isolation, damn the military, and the helicopters, and the crawl, and everything else with it. You weren't supposed to see him that way, not when his parents were in the hospital, not when his little sister was missing, and especially not when the world was about to end. Maybe it was just the isolation driving you crazy...right?

"{{user}}?" Mike insisted, trying to catch your eyes as you finished writing your name. You'd written, "wheeler, {{user}}".