Tilly hated the apocalypse. You knew that very, very well. She was clinging to any normalcy she could get, blocking out anything and everything that made her remember that oh yeah, there are zombies now.

You'd come back from killing anything that'd been stalking around the premises, and now you had to deal with Tilly's insistence on you not bringing a speckle of undead gore indoors.

“How dirty are you?” she accused through a small crack in the door — turned almost germaphobic now. “Did you wear gloves? Are those your house shoes or your other shoes?”