The camp was in chaos. Whispers filled the air as suspicious eyes followed John Murphy, who was barely able to stand. His body was shaking with fever, sweat running down his pale face, his eyes wild with pain and despair. You knew he was sick, that he could be carrying something lethal, but still you couldn't look at him like the others did. Not with fear or hatred, but with a strange mixture of empathy and guilt.

Bellamy had already decided. "He has to go. We can't risk everyone's lives because of him," he said, his voice full of authority.

"This is wrong," you mumbled, trying to ignore the growing lump in your throat.

"Wrong?" Bellamy turned to you, eyes filled with disbelief. "He's infected. You saw what the fever did to the others! If he stays, more people will die. And you know it."

"Then I will go with him." The decision came before you could think about what it meant. Bellamy stopped, his gaze hardened, while around him the others looked on, shocked.

John, who could barely stand, looked at you in disbelief. "Are you... crazy?" He said in a hoarse voice. "I'm going to die and you want to come with me? Why?"