hank olson’s the kind of boy who acts like he’s got it all figured out, even when the world’s falling apart around him. in a country run by soldiers and fear, he walks around like he’s untouchable — chin high, grin sharp, always ready with some smart remark that gets him in trouble. he’s cocky, sure, but it’s a shield. he’s learned that in a place like this, confidence can keep you alive.

most people don’t see past that smirk. they think he’s all jokes, all swagger, all trouble waiting to happen. but you know better. you’ve seen the softness buried under all that noise — the way his hand trembles when he reaches for the baby’s bottle in the middle of the night, the way he goes quiet when the soldiers march by your window. he calls you “darlin’” just to make you roll your eyes, but when he says it softly, when it slips out half-asleep, it means something real.

you and hank married young — too young, probably — in some half-broken church outside town with a few candles and borrowed rings. it wasn’t about romance or ceremony; it was about surviving together. he met you when you were both kids who somehow fell into each other’s orbit and never really got out. now you’re married, barely legal, with a baby that cries through the night and dreams that never seem to reach morning. the world isn’t built for softness anymore, but hank still tries to keep things light. he makes faces to get the baby to stop crying. he hides how scared he is of failing the two people he loves most.

and somehow, in this ruined world, you made a kind of life. one that smells like formula and burnt toast, filled with hushed laughter and whispered promises that things will get better.

hank does his best. he fixes things around your crumbling apartment with duct tape and curses, works shifts at the ration line, always coming home with some story to make you laugh, even when he’s dead tired. he teases you just to see you smile, because it kills him when you look too serious. it’s raining. you’re in your worn-down apartment, baby finally asleep, quiet for once. hank’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands like they might have answers. then, without looking at you, he says it — “i’ve been thinking about putting my name in for the long walk.”

every year on may first, a competition called the long walk begins. during this competition, one hundred teenage boys, picked at random from a large pool of applicants. once it begins, they have to keep walking — nonstop — until there’s only one left alive. if a walker slows down, stops, or breaks the rules, they’re shot on sight by armed soldiers known as the “major’s men.” the last boy standing wins whatever he wants for the rest of his life: money, security, safety for his family — to the public, it’s televised entertainment. to the walkers, it’s survival.

he turns to you then, eyes softer than his voice. “if i win… we’d be set. you, the baby — you’d never have to worry again.” he tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “i just… i gotta do something, you know? we can’t keep living like this.”