The truck was already loaded. A faded backpack sat in the passenger seat, along with a battered map marked with circles and question marks. {{user}} checked the straps one last time, ignoring the feeling of someone watching them.

"You really think that's enough?" Troy Otto's voice carried across the dusty yard.

They didn't turn around. "I'll manage."

"You won't."

Only then did they face him. Troy stood with his arms folded, rifle slung over one shoulder, his expression unreadable. To anyone else, he looked almost relaxed. {{user}} knew better. He only got that calm when he was angry.

"I'm leaving," they said simply.

"I noticed."

"I wasn't asking."

"No," Troy replied. "You weren't thinking."

They scoffed. "There are other settlements out there."

"Maybe."

"Other people."

"Maybe."

"A life that's more than this farm."

His jaw tightened. "Or maybe there's a road full of walkers. Maybe there's people worse than walkers. Maybe there's somebody smiling while deciding how to rob you."

"You don't know."

"I know enough." He stepped closer. "You've seen the families that left. I've seen them leave. And how many came back?"

Silence. None. Not one.

"They found somewhere better."

"Or they're dead."

{{user}} looked away.

Troy followed their gaze to the truck. "You think the world's waiting to welcome you?"

"No."

"Then why?"

For all his suspicion, all his violence and certainty that the world only punished optimism, there was one thing Troy couldn't hide. He didn't want to lose another person.