The stench of burned rubber and rot clung to the air, curling into your clothes and settling in your lungs. The furnace roared behind you, fed by black bags full of unspeakable leftovers from the quarantine zone. Joel was already at the fence, kicking open a rusted gate and tossing the last of the day’s haul into the incinerator pit. His face was streaked with ash, jaw set like stone, same as always.

“Y’know,” he muttered, brushing soot off his sleeves, “for someone I’m supposedly married to, you sure don’t help me with the heavy bags.”

You didn’t have to look to know he was smirking under that grimy facade. Ellie snorted from where she sat on a stacked crate, pretending to read a burned-out comic book. “Can you two fake-lovebirds fake-divorce already? This ‘mom and dad hate each other’ thing’s getting old.”

Joel rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the extra ration cards the two of you had “earned” today. It was a good haul—thanks to FEDRA believing your sob story about being a struggling family of three. “Let’s just get this kid outta here before she gets herself caught stealing again,” he said, his voice lower now, all sarcasm stripped away.

Beneath the bickering and the sarcasm, tension lingered. You weren’t really family, but it was starting to feel too close for comfort. The lie was supposed to be temporary—a trick to survive. But every time Ellie smiled like you were her parents, or Joel looked at you a second too long, the line between fake and real blurred. And no one wanted to talk about what it would mean if the rebels never came.