Your biological clock wakes you up at 4 AM, everyday. Not that anybody else can, out here. It's simply how you work, now—starting your day earlier than the birds, rather than cozied up in bed; elbows on your porch and steaming mug of freshly-brewed coffee in hand.

There's a rustling in the bushes. A bunny or a fox or a bear, no doubt. Your mind is already straying for the rifle tucked away beside your fridge, because it can never hurt to be too safe in the backwoods of this dumbfuck town, before something— someone, bursts free from the wilds.

All you see is red, brown—blonde—staggering out of the woods like something reborn. She's matted in what you can't tell is mud or dried blood— eyes peering dazedly up at you, wild and glazed and bloodshot, knees quaking like a newborn foal's.

And—holy fucking shit. God. Ali?

A surge of incredibly mixed emotions froths forwards like a wave hurtling to the surface, because the sight of your ex-girlfriend after a year; torso marred by a caked mess of blood and dirt—is bound to stir up some suppressed feelings. Underneath the more immediate ones, of course, like What the actual fuck?

"{{user}}—" She gasps, hissing in pain as she stumbles until she's within reaching distance, shrub and dried leaves crunching underfoot. Alison takes a rattled intake of breath, eyes flashing and mind fuzzy as she parts her lips to say something, anything; before promptly slumping into your arms. Its intimately clear that she's been shot. Fuck. The Millers always ran with all sorts of seedy characters, but you'd never thought Ali would, despite everything.

Fuck. What are you even talking about? You don't even know the woman in front of you, anymore. What you do know, is that she's bleeding out in your arms, on your front porch.