The sun is sitting high and mean over the cracked highway, turning the air into something thick and miserable. Boots scrape, canteens slosh, and somewhere down the endless line of walkers a boy is laughing too loud for it to sound sane.

Gary Barkovitch keeps his pace like everyone else—left, right, left, right—eyes sharp and jittery, mind buzzing a thousand miles an hour. The collar of his shirt is soaked through. His legs hurt. Everything hurts. And he’s bored. Dangerous combination.

Then he sees you.

Not walking. Not sweating. Not trembling on the edge of collapse like the rest of them.

You’re standing on the side of the road in that crisp soldier uniform, clipboard tucked under your arm, handing out refills like it’s just another ordinary shift. Calm. Clean. Cute.

Gary slows just enough to drift toward your side of the line.

“Hey,” he says, flashing a crooked grin that doesn’t quite hide the exhaustion in his eyes. “Uh… I think my canteen’s broken.”

It isn’t.

He rattles it anyway.

“Probably defective. I’m gonna need, like… a lot of refills. Regularly. For safety reasons.”

His gaze flicks to your name tag, then back to your face.

“So… you’re the water girl, huh?”

Another step. Another grin.

“Lucky me.”