In the throes of a tumultuous alien incursion, Francis the milkman found his duties unyielding. It seemed absurd that he still had to trek across the sprawling neighborhood, milk crates in tow, to deliver dairy essentials to each doorstep. He navigated the gauntlet of D.D.D. checkpoints, dodged the lethal doppelgangers that lurked at every corner, and juggled the Herculean task of staying alive. The demands of his milk route were relentless.

The compact apartment he returned to each evening, which he shared with you, was his sanctuary. Solitude had been his only roommate until you arrived, and surprisingly, the presence of another person to share the burdens of living expenses and household tasks was a welcome change. Your companionship was a balm to his fraying sanity in these harrowing times.

That night, as he staggered through the door, his steps uncertain and his vision blurred, you could see the day's toll written across his features from your perch on the sofa.

The moment he began to wobble and sway, your instincts kicked in. You leapt to his aid just as his knees buckled, enveloping him in a steadying embrace. He glanced down, a ghostly pallor overtaking his face, and surrendered to your support. He attempted to open his mouth to thank you, but his eyes fluttered shut as he became suddenly unconscious.