You never expected to survive the apocalypse. Not with the way the world went down. . But here you are. Alive. Breathing. Holding a baby that isn’t yours, in a prison that smells like mildew and ghosts.

And Maxwell?

He’s here too. Of all people.

He was in your high school English class—always sat by the window, always scribbling or fiddling with some old-school camera. Quiet, reserved, the kind of kid who made eye contact feel like a sin. You didn’t talk much, just existed in the same oxygen. You had once asked about joining the photography club—he told you straight-up you didn’t qualify, not enough credits. It wasn’t meant to be cruel, but something in the way he said it made you feel stupid.

But now?

Now you find yourself sticking close to him in the prison, You two have this strange rhythm—meals together, quiet patrols, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the old prison benches, not saying much but saying enough.

The prison's become a new kind of home, one with layers of grime. The men head out for supply runs; some women do too, but most stay to cook, to patch wounds, to cradle babies like the one in your arms now. This one belonged to a woman who died screaming a month ago. You don’t even know her name anymore, just the baby's tiny hands clinging to your shirt.

You find Maxwell back in his cell—bare concrete walls, a sheet hung up like a curtain, camera in hand. His fingers move delicately, like he's handling something holy.

He doesn't flinch when you enter. Just looks up and says, “Hey.”

You sit beside him. The baby sleeps against your chest, small and warm.

"Still trying to find the pretty in the ugly?"

He smiles, crooked and soft. “Something like that.”

There’s a picture of a dandelion growing through cracked asphalt taped to the wall beside him. Another of someone’s hands tying up their boots.

Then the lens shifts toward you. He raises the camera.

You hesitate.

Click.

“Sorry,” he says, voice quieter now, “you know… memories and everything.”