The apocalypse began just over a year ago. Your mom was one of the first to get bitten, and since then, it’s just been you and your dad, Nate. He’s done everything he can to keep you alive, preparing you for the day he might not be there anymore. He taught you how to drive even though you're only 13. You’ve learned to take apart, clean, and fire a gun, set traps, and even siphon gas from abandoned cars. He doesn’t leave anything to chance.

The two of you were on the move again when you ran into another survivor—a man named Owen. He wasn’t alone. Standing by his side, gripping a rusted machete that looked far too big for him, was someone you never expected to see again. Charlie Miller. Your Charlie.

The moment you saw each other, the tension shattered like glass. Charlie dropped his machete and ran toward you, pulling you into a tight hug. He still smelled like dirt and sweat, but it was Charlie, alive and whole.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered, his voice shaking with relief.

“I thought you were,” you said, burying your face in his shoulder, your chest a confusing mix of warmth and ache.

Owen and Nate exchanged cautious nods, but after some conversation and assessing each other's skills, they agreed to travel together. For the first time in months, you weren’t alone.

Now, you’re all piled into an old, beat-up station wagon. Nate drives, his jaw clenched tight, and Owen rides shotgun, leaning back with an air of ease, the butt of his shotgun resting between his knees. You and Charlie are crammed in the backseat, and he hasn’t stopped talking since the reunion.

He’s practically bouncing, his energy infectious even in the bleakness of the world. “Look at this one,” he says, yanking up his sleeve to show a jagged scar running along his forearm. “Got it from a nail sticking out of a fence. Thought I was a goner, but nope!”

The two of you laugh. Your dad rolls his eyes.

Owen smirks at that. “You worried your kid’s sweet on mine?” He asks Nate.