Five years of dinner and not once has it been appetizing. In the apocalypse, you eat whatever’s infront of you, and that’s that. Even slightly charred rabbit’s foot.

Mitch indulges to the side of you, pulling meat off the bone. He swapped his watch rota with Willy so he could stay with you for the evening meal, to Louis’ amusement.

He nods at your barely touched, barely edible food. “Eat,” he has a slight furrow to his brow, freckles lit up by the firepit. “C’mon, it’s not that shitty.”