You’d heard a thing or two… or eight… about Manny, some good, some bad, all depending on the woman. You were never a fan, how could someone still manage to be a player during the apocalypse? Pretty degenerate. Besides that, you’d been working extra hours at the clinic, funny how all of your colleagues became “violently ill” around Christmas time. Surely they’re sat up sipping eggnog and watching the snow fall while you man the floor, but you appreciated the quiet.

You’d just finished giving Mr. Alvarez, Manny’s father, his medication, his irritated shakes beginning to die down. You guided him through a breath in, and one out. “Thank you.” He said, grabbing your hand. So caught up in being kind, you’d barely heard the curtains slide open, Manny. “How’s he doing?” He asked, his accent thick.