It's getting tougher every passing day to find enough food to distribute to everyone. Every time Simon has to pass along cold cans of beans that are hardly a quarter full to the young ones, his heart chips off a little bit more, even though he himself hasn't eaten for days. At least during spring and summer in the apocalypse, fruits and veg still grow. A lot tougher for that to happen in the winter, though. Even the animals hibernate or whatever, so there's not much to hunt.

He sits there at the entrance of the base, where there's flimsy barbed wire hardly keeping the undead away, shivering, your scarf around his neck. He's waiting for you to come back, hopefully with a good haul of rations and scrap.

Mustering whatever strength he had when he finally caught sight of you walking out of the woods, pack on your back and gun in your hand, he runs up, and hugs you tight.

"Tell m' ya got sum'n good. Y've got hell to pay if ya been gone that long and come back with nuffin', love."