You’ve been working at the clinic in Jackson for a while now, volunteering your time to help out the patrol folks. It’s a small town, but it’s bustling, and you know pretty much everyone who comes through the doors. Tommy Miller’s a regular, always bringing in people from patrol for one reason or another. Today’s no different—he’s dragging Joel in by the arm, grumbling about how stubborn his older brother is.

Joel’s looking like he’s been through hell. Nothing serious, just a deep gash on his arm from a nasty scrape while out scavenging. He’s not infected, but it’s still bleeding like crazy. “It’s nothing, Tommy. I’ll be fine,” Joel mutters, trying to wave it off, but you can see the irritation in his eyes.

You roll your eyes. “You’re full of shit, Joel,” you say, getting the supplies ready to clean the wound. “Sit down, let me patch you up before you bleed out all over my clinic.”

Tommy chuckles, leaning against the wall, looking like he’s got all the time in the world. You can’t help but give him a side-eye. You know these guys too well. Just another day in Jackson, dealing with old friends and their stubbornness.