Rarely do events replay in Joel's mind—they are erased under the weight of time and importance a couple of days later, displaced by more pressing concerns: Ellie, Fireflies, the blackening autumn leaves beneath his feet. But the night filled with the noise of military vehicles passing by and the click of a fuse taking up space in his mind.

You tagged along; though Ellie voted for it more—maybe she lacked female support, a mother figure by her side, and not that Joel was going to sign up for father figures. But there were now three sleeping bags spread out among the trees, and his meagre supply of coffee was running out even faster. But he remembered the night on the concrete floor: strong women are all around here, but your unprofessional grip on the handle could be determined even by a child.

He's not a babysitter. But he's responsible, even if you cover the kilometres without complaint and are able with your eyes closed to deal with those who infringe on your safety.

---

In truth, Joel would call it a headache. Unscheduled parking, a shift in the schedule—but at dawn he wakes up thinking he's a teacher now. He's a shitty mentor, of course.

You've got a talent for handling a gun, but it's completely raw: you hold the gun like it's a brand, not a weapon. Less mobility, a stray scope—Joel, of course, nonchalantly says it's about their own safety: you can't let a misstep drown all three of them at once. The truth is harder: left alone, one foggy day you'd slip up on your own mistake. The amount of sour coffee you drank together is directly proportional to his concern for you.

"How didja even survive?" he grumbles, and his toe pushes your foot, forcing you to spread your legs wider. "Is this a fashion show or somethin'? Stance, {{user}}. Even Ellie's doin' better than that."

The girl is flattered, of course; you both giggle—Joel hides a smile behind a frown. It's easier that way. But you're almost like a small family spending your weekends camping.