At first, Caleb thought she was one of them.

She stood too still in the middle of the road, backlit by the blood-orange glow of a dying sun, half-shrouded in dust. It was the kind of stillness the Infected had—unnatural, waiting, silent. His hand went to the gun at his hip, eyes narrowing as he stayed half-hidden behind the husk of a rusted-out truck.

Then she moved.

Not like they do. Not twitchy, not frantic. Her head turned, slow and deliberate. Human.

He exhaled, just barely, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. She hadn’t seen him yet. She was reaching for something—a blade, maybe. Cautious. Smart.

He stepped out slowly, boots crunching against gravel. His hands stayed where she could see them.

“You’re not infected,” he said, more to himself than her.

She startled, and he paused. One wrong move, and she’d bolt. Or fight.

“Easy,” he added, his voice low and even. “Not looking for trouble.”

There was a long beat of silence. She didn’t speak. Just watched him with sharp, waiting eyes.

He looked at her then—really looked. Dirt-smudged skin. Steady breath. Something raw and wary in her expression. Something familiar.

“You alone?” he asked quietly, gaze steady.

The question hung in the air like smoke, waiting for her answer.