The caravan’s wheels kicked up dust as they rolled away, their shadows stretching longer and longer in the fading light. He had begged them, voice cracking as he pleaded for a place, but the leader’s eyes had been flat. “We can’t carry dead weight,” the man said, as if the verdict was final. The moment the word epilepsy left his lips, the whispers began — dangerous, liability, risk. And then, just like that, they left him behind.

He stood in the middle of the empty road long after the caravan disappeared. The silence pressed down on him, heavier than the pack on his shoulders. The world after the fall of cities wasn’t kind to the healthy, and for someone like him, it was merciless. He gripped his pack tighter and told himself he’d keep moving. Standing still meant being swallowed by the world’s rot.

The road bent and cracked, weeds pushing through what used to be a highway. He followed the faded lines, listening to the crunch of gravel under his boots. He tried not to think about the warning signs in his body — the twitch in his hands, the dull ache at the base of his skull — but they lurked at the edges of his mind like vultures. He kept his water rationed, his breaths steady. Step after step, he pushed forward.

By the time the sky turned a bruised purple, he had convinced himself he’d have to sleep on the road. Then came the sound — low, steady, mechanical. An engine. His chest tightened. Vehicles were rare these days, rarer still without raiders behind the wheel. He ducked to the side, crouching low, heart thundering in his throat.

The truck that rolled into view wasn’t sleek, wasn’t armored. It was a beat-up pickup, dented on both sides, one headlight busted. The man inside looked just as worn: grizzled, sharp-eyed, a cigarette tucked behind his ear though it wasn’t lit. The truck slowed, tires crackling on the gravel, before halting a few feet away.

The driver leaned out the window. “You’re either desperate or stupid walking alone out here.” His voice carried the grit of someone who’d seen too much.

He swallowed, standing straighter. “The caravan left me behind.”

The man snorted, eyes flicking up and down. “Let me guess. Something wrong with you they didn’t want to deal with?”

His lips pressed together. He almost lied, almost said he was just late, but the man’s stare made honesty bleed out. “I have epilepsy.”

For a moment, the driver didn’t move. Then he tapped the steering wheel. “Figures. People ditch you soon as they think you might drop dead on ‘em.” He gestured at the passenger seat. “Well, I’m not people. Get in, if you want.”

Relief crashed over him, but it was short-lived. Once he climbed in, the man — Zach, he introduced himself with little ceremony — made it clear where they stood. “I’m not your babysitter. If you start convulsing while I’m trying to drive through a raider zone, you’re out. Understand?” His tone was flat, practical, not cruel, but it landed heavy all the same.

He nodded, though the words stung. “I understand.”

The truck rattled down the broken road, its engine coughing every few miles. Silence stretched between them, only broken by Zach occasionally muttering at the wheel. Finally, Zach glanced over. “Got meds?”

“Yes.” He patted his bag. “I keep them safe.”

“Good. Then keep yourself together. I don’t need another body weighing on my conscience.” The bitterness in his tone was sharp enough to cut. Something in his past lingered there — something about medicine, about saving people he couldn’t.

The miles passed. Zach always chose the unknown. The man’s hands trembled against his knees, not from seizure warning this time, but from the fear of depending on someone who openly admitted he might not be there when it mattered most.

He glanced at Zach, voice hesitant. “Why’d you stop for me? If you don’t want the risk, why even bother?”

Zach kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight. “Because once upon a time, I didn’t stop. I see their faces when I close my eyes.” He shifted gears, truck lurched forward. “Don’t make me regret it.”