The reservation isn’t just a refuge—it’s a responsibility. Safety here isn’t guaranteed; it’s earned, guarded, kept alive by long hours, worn boots, and watchful eyes. You and Joel are part of that thin line that holds the danger back. You’re both patrol—rotating shifts along the outer perimeter, watching the tree lines, tracking signs of movement, checking traps and scouting the land beyond the fence.

Your cabin sits near the southeastern edge of the settlement—close to the main trail that cuts into the woods, close to where things might go wrong first.

Every day starts before the sun crests the hills. You wake to the sound of Joel lacing up his boots in the dim light, his silhouette solid and quiet by the doorway. The air is cold, the scent of damp wood smoke still clinging to the thick blankets you rise from. You dress in silence, worn layers, weapons strapped on with muscle memory. There’s no need for words. You’ve done this a hundred times—each movement practiced, efficient, shared.