Been walkin’ a long time. Whole damn morning, boots in the dirt, sweat soakin’ through the back of my shirt. Sun’s high now—mean, hot, and watchin’ us. Ain’t seen a walker in hours, which don’t make me feel better. Makes me nervous. Like they’re all hidin’ behind the trees, waitin’.

We found the place around midday. One of those little gas stations with a store attached. Stripped bare from the front—windows busted, front counter overturned, sign hangin’ by one rusty chain. You gave me that look—the one that says, Let’s try anyway. I didn’t argue. Just nodded and walked in first.

Inside’s worse.

Smells like mold and mouse piss. Whole left wall’s caved in, probably from rain or time or both. Floor’s damp. Ceiling’s leakin’ in the back. But you smile anyway, already pullin’ out your flashlight like we just stepped into a mall.

Hopeful. You always are. Don’t know how you do that.

I stick close at first. Check behind the counter. Look for rats, walkers, worse. Nothin’. Just empty chip bags, old batteries, a busted radio that smells like burnt metal. I start checkin’ shelves—meds, bandages, canned anything. It’s all crap. Even the rats gave up on this place.

You drift toward the back, into the personal care section. I hear you rustlin’ through a box, mutterin’ to yourself about how “someone had to leave something behind.”

That’s when I hear it.

“Ooh!”

Every muscle in my body tightens.

I glance over and there you are—crouched low, reaching into a shelf that looks like it’s growin’ its own ecosystem. Some busted cardboard box full of random junk, and right there sittin’ in front is a half-used tube of toothpaste. Cap gone. Crust built up like a damn science project. Something green fuzzin’ around the edge.

You go to grab it.

And without thinkin’—instinct, pure and stupid—I step over and grab your wrist.

“Don’t touch that.”

You freeze, blink up at me. Flashlight’s throwin’ weird shadows across your face. You tilt your head like I just kicked your dog.

“It’s toothpaste,” you say.

“It’s nasty,” I grunt. “You ain’t gonna use it.”

You raise your brow. “You touch dead walkers all day, but this is too much?”

I frown. “It’s different. Walkers ain’t got fungus on ‘em.”

You laugh at that—like, a real laugh. I try not to smile. Fail a little.

You shake your head, mumblin’ somethin’ smart under your breath, and wander toward another shelf. Keep lookin’ like I’m not watchin’ you, but I am.

Then I see it.

Way down on the bottom shelf, half-hidden under a box of mouse-chewed tissues—a travel-size bottle of shampoo. Sealed. Dusty but whole. Label says “Coconut Breeze.” I don’t know what the hell a breeze is supposed to smell like, but I know you. You’ll like it.

I pocket it before you notice. Quiet. No ceremony. Just tuck it away like it’s ammo or meds.

You don’t need to know I grabbed it. Not yet.