Chapter Text
Her breath comes out in thick, white puffs; they suck back in more coarse, frosty forest air prickling the inside of her nose.
In. Out.
She readjusts on the ground, wiggling to better position Joel's rifle on the log. Her heart’s pounding in her ears, and the shift only makes it more noticeable.
In. Out.
The cold’s seeped through her gloves, numbing her fingers in that way that makes them all feel bruised. A wave of shivers ends at her hands, and they clench down on the rifle, gripping the gun much tighter than necessary.
She rolls her shoulders. Tries to release the tension. Her eye lowers to the scope. Focus.
In. Out.
“Steady,” Joel murmurs beside her, his voice a low rumble, but loud in the hush of the snowy pines. His hand comes to rest on her back between her shoulder blades and brushes back and forth.
He must be able to tell she is more tense than she should be.
"Aint far off, you got it."
In.
She takes a deep breath through her nose, chest expanding to the point it pushes back against his light touch.
Out.
Releasing it, she zeroes in on the deer in the crosshairs - a nice young buck blissfully unaware just thirty yards ahead.
They hadn't run into much game since…
Fuck.
It’s in her brain before she has any choice about it. She squeezes her eyes shut. A vision of him flashes behind her lids: smiling and praising her for shooting down a big one while he drags it by the antlers into that dilapidated house.
Her grip on the rifle tightens.
In. Out.
"Any day now, kiddo," Joel encourages. Soft. Unaware. Waiting.
She swallows - hard - feels every muscle in her dry throat scrape against each other as they contract around nothing. She readjusts to keep the deer in her sights, a small black cross shaking in her vision.
Her mouth feels papery, but she forces down another gulp anyway. She lifts one hand off the grip, brings it to her teeth, and bites the tip of the glove. With a sharp tug, she yanks it off, then flaps her hand to shake it into the snow. When it’s free, she does the same with the other, then wiggles back into place.
It should help.
In. Out.
It doesn’t.
"You really are quite the shot...couldn't hit him better myself."
She pulls her eye away from the scope and resets - a breath in, one exhale out, a pass through her surroundings for recon. Her eyes sweep deep through the scenery, looking for a distraction - something else, just for a moment, just to recenter.
But it’s fucking impossible.
Her eyes keep straying back, skipping from trunk to trunk, until they land on that exact stretch of tree line where the buck stands - still, exposed, ready.
She knows her hand is shaking before she even looks. But she checks anyway. Confirms it.
With a deep breath, she curls it into a tight fist, holds it for a moment before releasing it. It comes out steady, and determined to continue, she places her hand back on the rifle, fingers wrapping around the cool metal, knuckles turning white.
In.
She brings her eye to the scope again - crosshairs level - lines them up with the deer’s silhouette.
But it doesn’t last.
The black lines shiver like they’ve caught a breeze, rustling over the deer. She grips down harder -tighter - hopes it does something to make it stop.
She’s better than this.
In. Out.
The deer lifts its head. It’s still for a moment, but then its neck snaps left, looking downwind, deep brown vacant eyes locking straight on them. Its right ear twitches back - she holds her breath, hopes to God it’s not catching them like a ping on sonar.
“Ellie.”
It’s whispered in her ear - a warning, firm, but concerned - has that uptick of a question Joel does when he’s not telling, but not quite asking either.
She doesn’t need the input.
“‘I got it,” she snaps back, whisper harsher than Joel’s. Maybe a bit sharper than it had to be.
The rifle stock is melting in her hands, slick against her clammy palms. The deer’s walking further back, and the sights keep wavering as it gets smaller, and she knows it’s getting dangerously close to being too far to not fuck this all up.
In. Out.
She wants to get it. Knows she can if she just-
It starts to go fuzzy.
Her eyelashes scrape against the plastic rim of the lens as she blinks in short bursts. With another scratchy gulp, she tries to line up the shot as quickly as possible.
Buck. Black Cross. Breathe in -
Her body has other plans.
The air snags halfway. Won’t go in. Won’t come out. Her throat clamps. The breath gets stuck deep, unable to be released, it builds a pressure in her chest, excess air hopelessly pushing against her lungs and ribs, searching for a way out.
Her mind goes there like it often does now: hands encircling her throat, pushing her deeper into the floor, squeezing until stars speckle her vision.
“Ellie?”
“Ellie?”
A sharp, prickly wave surges through her body,tiny pin pricks running down her skin, each tiny little hair standing straight up. Her heartbeat was loud before, but it’s getting louder - like she cranked the volume, spun the dial hard and fast. It’s echoing. In her throat, in her head, in her bones. Something flips. Her limbs go heavy. The world feels like it's tilting, swaying like she’s not part of it - detached in a whirl of white snow and dark trees.
She can’t breathe. Can’t think.
She drops back from the the log, rising fast from the snow.
“I… can’t… breathe,” she chokes out hastily. Her hands clench the rifle hard - the tactile feedback is nice - she squeezes it harder, but some more rational part of her brain, more cognizant of what she’s doing, tells her to get her hands off the gun - now.
She catches Joel’s eyes for just a second before thrusting the firearm towards him, fingers fumbling as she releases it, barely aware if it’s landing in his grip or not.
It doesn’t.
The long barrel slips through his clumsy gloved fingers and hits the log before bouncing and rolling off into the snow with a muted thud. His eyes go first to it, sticking to its position for a long second before then darting towards the deer disappearing into the trees - she can tell by the twitch in his jaw, he’s pissed.
His eyes find her last.
Irritation stains them for a second before it’s pushed out by worry, widening as they take her in. She’s not sure if her own are as big as his, but they feel it - plastered open, cold air licking at parts rarely touched.
He’s taking a step forward, but she’s jerking away in the same coordinated move, chest swelling with the start of a groan as she pushes the heels of her hands deep into the sockets of her eyes.
“It’s okay.”
It’s not.
“Fuck off.” It comes out as a growl from her tightly clenched jaw.
It’s pathetic.
She rips her hands away from her eyes and throws her head back, finding the treetops as blotches of purples and blues slowly sink away from her vision. Brushing a soothing hand against her chest she tries to gulp in some breaths.
It doesn’t seem to help in the slightest.
The ringing in her ears builds, gets to a high pitched whistle before blurring down an octave, vibrating in her head as a guttural scream. It sounds a little like hers, or maybe his. But it feels like both- mixed together, loud, stretching the skin the back of her throat even though her mouth is closed.
“I can’t -” she gasps, trying to take another deep breath, eyes coming down from the sky to meet Joel’s again.
He moves forward, one hand raised, and she’s about to shoot him a warning glare - don’t - but he stops his approach with an uneven step, one foot out in front as his hand falls back to his side.
Personal space. It’s been a bit of a necessity in moments like this - they've learned it the hard way things only get worse when he comes up on her too quick.
“You can.” It’s soft, like ultra Joel soft, paired with a gentle smile.
He isn’t a smiler, not really, it looks weird- off.
A different grin comes to the forefront, flashing in her vision. A smile that was conniving, and creepy, and warm.
She takes a step back, her boots crunching in untouched snow. She wants to get away from it - run, now, right now - but it sticks in her vision, tracking with her just like he did.
The feeling of tightness in her chest overflows into her limbs. When it reaches its end at her fingers and toes it doesn’t stop, bleeding out and staining everything around her.
One hasn’t been like this in weeks. And even then, it had come on after a nightmare, not just out in the open for no fucking reason.
She swears the trees are uprooting themselves and inching forward, and her clothes are shrinking down two sizes too small, and even Joel seems to have grown four inches, towering above her.
And then there is the rock in her stomach. It’s more than rock - a fucking boulder - butting up against the tightness of everything else and weighing her down. But everything is also telling her she should be moving - hide, run, fight - gut screaming she ought to be scared.
She is. Maybe. Just a little.
“I ca-,” her eyes skip around - rock, tree, snow, log, tree, Joel, sky - “-breathe, Joel.”
“You’re alright.”
Her brain clocks that he’s skipping through the normal script, but it’s too much of a scattered mess to stay on the thought for long. She’s not alright. And he’s supposed to tell her to breathe. And she can’t fucking breathe. So she’s not alright, yet.
“Just hold on-“
If he finished his sentence she has no fucking clue. He takes another step forward and this time she doesn’t move back, but she doesn’t stay still either.
Her fingers shoot to her throat, digging into the space between her neck and the fabric of her scarf, and pulls at it aggressively, ripping it away. When it’s falling loose, her fingers rush to the zipper of her jacket and yanks it down and open, before finally darting to her head and whipping off her beanie with one hearty tug. It’s a feverish and desperate storm, but she has to alleviate the constricting feeling overwhelming her body. The layers fall to the ground as her hands come to her knees, body bent at the waist.
“You gonna -?”
Puke, is the end of the question - it’s happened before - but she runs his chain of thought off course with a gurgly mewl in the back of her throat that eventually turns to a rough gasp of words: “No no, I just, I can’t -”
Can’t fucking keep her shit together. She’s a mess. A big fat dumb mess.
Her fingers dig into her knees, clawing into her jeans until they come together close enough to push into fists. Tears pool in her waterline, fighting gravity as she keeps her head down.
Ripples of quakes clench her muscles. They twitch with the constriction then settle for a few seconds before the next wave comes roiling through. Her breath hitches in short uneven gasps, fighting to get control of her own stupid body.
She hates this.
Hates how she can’t keep her chill, how the memories slip through - freshest first: him, and cages, and basements, and blood and guts, and cold. And hates how when she can’t hold them back, the older stuff floods in too: bullets in brains, and failed fixes, and explosive sacrifice, and bites in malls, and more than friends, and “lose our minds together,” and - the air feels prickly on the inhale - and every other thing that’s happened in her long 14 years. It stacks and stacks.
It won’t stop stacking.
“Do you want me to -"
She hates it.
With a lame shoo of the hand in his general direction, he stops talking.
In. Out. In. Out.
A gust cuts through her jacket, shivers ripping down her back. It doesn’t match the panic still crawling under her skin - and weirdly, that helps. Reminds her she’s not in that fucking restaurant. No fire, no breath on her face, no blood on her hands.
“There you go, you’ve got it.” His voice sounds noticeably closer, and she can’t see him bent as she is, but she is sure he has moved another few steps in her direction. He never can stay away for long.
Get a grip, Williams.
In. Out.
She focuses her eyes on the white snow at her feet. Pinpricks of circular indents dot the top layer from a few stray tears rolling out her eyes and dropping down into it. She counts them - three, four, five - blinks to push out a few more - six, seven, eight, nine.
And then it’s over.
The pounding stops.
Then the ringing.
Then finally, she can take a real breath.
Just like that.
Her head doesn’t explode.
Her lungs don’t pop.
The forest doesn’t swallow her whole.
It’s bullshit.
Anticlimactic in the most horrible way possible.
With a long exhale, she straightens.
“Good?” He asks with a curt nod. It’s dripping in sympathy.
She doesn’t want it.
It feels weak. She doesn’t want to be weak. Weak makes you - her eyes skip back over to the tree line, shoulders falling toward the ground at the site of her target long gone.
She locks her molars together, a scream of frustration itching at the back of her throat that quickly starts to turn into something else. She bites at the insides of her cheeks, rolls her eyes, and hopes that she isn’t as teary-eyed as she feels.
Crying is weak. Nope. No. She can’t start crying now too.
She is such a fucking mess.
“It’s alright,” Joel offers.
“It’s not,” she quickly refutes.
At FEDRA, when you were young, kids would laugh when you cried, and the officers would call you a Beluga instead of Boot (… “you goin’ sit here and wail?”); now, whenever she feels the sensation crawling out, she can’t help but to shut it down. And fast. Bite it back before it gets too far.
Her eyes land on, a patch of dark craggily bark dusted white just beyond Joel’s shoulder. She locks onto it. Won’t look at him. Not until the water starts to go back where it came from.
He bridges the gap between them with a few strides, stooping to pick up her coat from where it lays discarded. With a gentle yet practiced motion, he drapes it over her shoulders, carefully threading it around her back. Holding the corners tightly, he leverages them to pull her into his chest, gently.
Her brain tells her it’s weak, but her body is pliable to his touch. Leaning into him, her cheek presses warmly against his chest. She takes a breath in, and her nose immediately fills with the smell of him - smoke and wood and Joel.
She hates that too- well, hates how much she likes it. Hates how much she feels like she needs him, hates how she can’t make herself pull away, not yet.
Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply again, focusing on the comforting rhythm of his heart against her ear. It’s strong and steady - not like a month ago when she listened to it for the first time. Then, it was a flutter that she was worried would just stop.
No.
She can’t let herself go there, either.
His chin comes to the top of her head, and he begins to sway ever so slightly, leaving no choice for her not to follow suit.
It’s sweet. But not in the good way - gives her that same ache in her stomach like when she chugs the fruit juice at the bottom of the good cans.
"This is - fuck. This is dumb.”
The words come out before her brain decides what they’re about - a lot of all this is dumb: walking west with barely a plan, not being able to do anything for herself, acting like a scared little chicken shit, Joel not calling her out for any damn part of it -
In. It’s dumb.
Out. It’s still dumb.
“I’m not- it’s never - ", the words catch. She swallows. Exhaling into him, the rest is muffled, stuck in the little space between them, "- never gonna get better.”
“It will. It will, I promise.”
There’s a tremble in his voice - thinks she can feel it with how his head’s perched atop her’s. He clears his throat - can certainly feel that.
“Just need to wait a bit.”
It’s lacking a certain Joel-ness that usually carries his authority, and it doesn’t quite sound like a lie, but the believability isn’t there much either.
“A bit?”
“End of winter you’ll be feelin’ different…wait til the weather turns - spring - you’ll be better by spring, it’s just goin’ to take some time.”
--------𓊔--------
They split a rabbit as dinner for the third time this week. This one - “Cynthia” - had evaded them for three days, slipped right through the snares but always then lingered, staring them down with her big black eyes as they emptied the trap of her less lucky kin.
They weren’t lucky with the deer, but got lucky with Cynthia.
Or so they thought.
She ended up being deceptively tiny. She looked plump, but her regal grey pelt was just poofy, concealing a lean frame - enough meat for one person, but certainly not two. She was more gamey than the others this week, with a certain oiliness that left an undesirable residue on the inside of their mouths - which was a little strange since she had no fat on her - not that most rabbits do, anyways.
“Cynthia sucks.”
She bends a small bone between her pointer finger and thumb, and when the tension is right, releases it, flicking it into the fire between her and Joel.
“She’s dinner.”
He doesn’t pick his head up to engage, and part of her knows he’s just focused on nibbling off as much from his portion as he can manage - isn’t trying to be short with her - but her ears latch onto his tone.
He’s not happy about this.
And to be fair, she isn’t either, but something about his unhappiness bothers her way more than her own. It leaves just as bad of a taste in her mouth as Cynthia - a taste that grows and spreads down the back of her throat as the minutes run long without any further commentary.
He’s been more chatty at dinner lately, filling in the gaps for her, but tonight he’s barely talking.
She positions another flimsy bone in between her fingers and flicks it off, this time aiming it high and to the left, purposefully off course so it sails over the fire and lands on the frosted ground at the tip of Joel’s boot.
He brushes it into the bottom cinders without any regard.
Apparently, he is very not happy about this.
She takes a breath, squares her shoulders, and tries to feel a little taller in her body.
“Joel.”
Her voice cracks like a pubescent boy - comes out soft, but with static and squeak, all in one humiliating second.
Tripped up in the failure of a start, she stutters to continue fluidly, failing to follow it with any other words.
It’s pretty fucking dumb.
He hums in reply, raising his gaze to look at her as he gnaws at the remnants of the cartilage cap on a very small leg bone.
Swallowing down, she offers: “It won’t happen again.”
He takes a long moment and just stares at her, face a little blank. It’s the Joel sorta blank: thoughts clearly swirling in his head, just hidden behind layers and layers of…something.
She hates that face.
He sucks the bone out of his mouth, unceremoniously tosses it into the fire, and equally as casually asks, “What ain't?”, before rubbing his dirty hands on the top of his thighs and turning toward his backpack.
She rolls her eyes at him, not that he sees.
He’ll acknowledge she’s different one minute - always when she’s in the thick of it, encouraging her with soft coos and hushed promises; and then the next, he’s feigning ignorance - pretending he hasn’t noticed all the ways she’s changed, all the ways she’s more of a problem than when they left Boston months and months ago.
She hasn’t been able to figure out if it's an intentional move - the switching back and forth between the two - or just some clumsy attempt to cover all his bases in making her feel better. If she knew the answer, she would probably call him out, but she doesn’t.
“I’ll take the shot next time, won’t miss.”
He glances her way, clears his throat, and buries his arm deep into his pack, eyes turning away to rummage through its contents. He first pulls out their map, lazily tosses it down beside him, and then dives back in, clearly on the hunt for something else.
“You’re still learning…,” he begins, jiggling the backpack in his lap, “you’re gettin’ the hang of it…,” he cranes his neck, trying to catch the light of the fire just right as his hand disappears further inside the fabric, “…don’t expect you to hit everything,” he begins to withdraw his arm only to stop and go back down, “.. I don’t even hit everythin’.”
“Yeah you do liar.”
He pulls his arm out, holding his small flask and shoots her a wry smirk through his brow.
“I’ve been at it longer than you’ve been alive. Just give it -“
“-time… I know.”
Like Cynthia, time sucks.
Everything has all just been dumb endless, dragging time. Time to cross the country. Time to find the Fireflies. Time to find Tommy. Time from Silver Lake. Time to Salt Lake. It’s all been a waiting game, and she’s sick of it.
He nods into silence again, crosses his arms over his chest, and sinks into his coat. He takes a slow sip from the flask, his eyes fixed on the flames as they dance in the pit.
Contemplative Joel. Brooding Joel. Knows everything and thinks it will all get better Joel.
She wants him to just say that he’s disappointed and that she needs to hurry up and do better. She doesn’t want the “time” bullshit.
He sloshes the liquid in the flask and takes another swig.
Pop.
Crackle.
Slosh.
The minutes go dry.
She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him drink, drums her fingers against her knee, tries to take over his silence with something else. Something that doesn’t make her feel like she’s sitting in a seat across from a FEDRA Lieutenant, one sassy comment away from a lecture and the worst jurisdiction assignment possible.
Impulse control has never been her strong suit.
“Can I have a sip?”
Glancing over the flames at her, he peers down the bridge of his nose, hesitation clear in his eyes. She raises her eyebrows, waiting.
“It’s worse than the last stuff,” he warns with a tilt of the head. “You’re not gonna like it.”
That’s not really the point.
Clapping her gloved hands together, she urges him to toss it over.
“Can’t be worse than the taste already in my mouth.”
He tilts his head again, switching sides, squints at her like she’s asking something hard.
“Oh, c’mon man.”
She’s left waiting for a long moment, hands cupped and ready for it; finally he heaves a sigh, caps it, and tosses it over the fire toward her lap.
“One sip,” he says seriously.
“One sip,” she confirms, mimicking his voice with a tone drop and catching it in her hands - although, a little clumsily.
The moment she lifts it to her lips, the sharp smell of alcohol hits her nose, and when it touches her tongue the burn is instant, searing her throat on the way down. She grimaces, coughing as she lowers it. “That sucks.”
It’s a bit of a lie. It’s nasty - certainly - but there is a part that is kind of nice. Reminds her of Boston. Of the booze Winston in the tent used to keep, dark amber liquid that was unbearably strong - “this here, this will put hair on your chest, damn right there under them trainin’ bras.” He was a peculiar character.
He motions for her to pass it back, and she does without complaint, tossing it straight over the fire as he had done.
The quiet settles in again and he takes another slow sip and just… holds it there. In his mouth - probably burns like hell, sitting on his tongue, but maybe that's the point.
Maybe she should have done it like that too.
She draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, trying to soak up as much warmth as she can. The cold bites at her face, sneaks down her collar, and seeps up from the ground, soaking into her jeans until the denim feels wet, even though it’s not.
Cynthia sucks.
Time sucks.
The booze sucks.
Winter sucks.
She dips her head down, digging her chin into the top of her jacket, puffs a sigh, and stares unblinkingly into the fire until her eyes threaten to water.
“How long do you think winter’s got left?” Again, her voice breaks softer than she intends small, weak, pathetic. She regrets the question the moment it escapes - hopes it will fade away like the sparks drifting up from the glow into the night sky.
He doesn't answer right away, and for a moment, she hopes the silence might swallow it up. Hesitantly, her eyes flick up, catching a fleeting softness in his gaze that vanishes as soon as he notices her looking. His eyes shift to the dark tree line.
He’s definitely heard her.
She taps her front teeth together, apprehensive. She hopes his silence isn’t a sign of how long and heavy his answer will be. She needs him to take it at face value and not as an open invite to start some awkward therapy session with her.
He tried that once, after everything back at the Lake. Clumsily, he told her: “You know I’m not good at this stuff, but if you need to talk - just, you don’t need to - I can listen. That ‘keep stuff to ourselves’ thing I said, that don’t have to be about this.” He kept asking her if she was okay, tried to figure out why she was quiet, rambled on and on about the importance of sleep, and resting, and not keeping things bottled up, and then went on a tangent about Tommy and P.T.S.D - whatever the fuck that stands for.
Finally, he replies: “Few more weeks, maybe, it’ll break eventually.”
Eventually. It’s not what she wants to hear, but at least it’s not another well-intended but entirely unhelpful soliloquy.
He takes another long swig from the flask before capping it and tossing it onto his bag, trading it for the map laid there. His knees pop as he rises to his feet, joints protesting against the cold. With a grunt, he steps over to her, unfolding the paper and smoothing it out on his lap as he sits down again with a quiet groan.
“Tomorrow. Westward,” he announces, clearing his throat and tracing a line with his finger across the map’s creased surface - as if they have been going anywhere else.
“This area here,” his finger taps on a green portion amongst a slew of tan, “s’ah state park, should be good to cut through. There are some lakes - can try some fishing if they ain’t iced over.. and the game’ll be better there.” He pauses, head rocking, “- should be at least.”
He traces the path again, backtracking the thick Route-70 line until he lands where they are now. Another patch of green, lighter, several inches away on the map. She’s stopped asking how many miles that means even before Jackson.
“An’ there should be a ranger station or somethin’ where we can hole up for a bit. Take another few days break when we get there.”
She leans over, pushes her chin into her shoulder, squints at the paper through the firelight. The lines blur slightly, but she nods, pretending she cares what he’s pointing towards. It's all just been west and trees and roads and towns. None of it much different than the last. He’s had them taking longer breaks at places too - walking for a few days and then stopping for about the same, some little dot becoming their home for a few nights.
He’s said it’s cause his side’s still tugging weird - the cold or whatever - but she knows that’s only half a reason - which might even be too generous.
He nudges her shoulder with his, offering a slight grin. “Maybe out there, you’ll learn to hit somethin’.”
It’s not funny.
Her chin sinks deeper against her shoulder, staring at the expanse of the raggedy map in his hands.
Salt Lake isn’t even on it, right now.
He sucks in a breath, “Well..”, and holds out the map. She inches an arm away from her legs to grab it, and lets it flop down in her grip - unenthused and unwilling to uncurl from her current position. “-gonna check the perimeter before bed,” he mutters, releasing the air as he stands with a soft grunt, rubbing at his back and stretching.
She doesn’t respond, just gives a slight nod, barely looking up to follow him with her eyes as he walks off and away.
A gust of wind rustles the branches above her, the fire popping softly in the stillness. She glances down at the map, hand raising it just above her knee, firelight backing it with a deep orange glow. There’s a fleeting thought to toss it in - watch it get devoured by the flames, burn down to a crisp - but it's just that, fleeting.
She lets her hand droop, map falling out of view, and buries her face in the crook of her arm, cheek pressed into the stiff fabric of her coat. Her feet scratch against the ground as she sucks in a long breath and pulls her legs in closer.
Winter.
Walking.
West.
Before she knows it, she’s moving. Uncurling from her spot, she shifts around the fire, crawling toward Joel’s pack, her fingers closing around the shiny flask that’s been winking at her through the flames.
She hesitates, ears straining for any sound of his return.
Nothing.
The cap unscrews with a quiet click, and she raises it to her lips, still on her knees, heart thudding in her chest. The burn is immediate, but she forces it down, fighting against the urge to cough.
There’s a part of her that wants to prove… something.
When the heat settles in her chest, it’s not as sharp as before. Maybe she’s getting used to it, maybe she’s fooling herself - trying to be something she’s not.
Mouth beginning to water, she responds with another swig. It feels right. This time, she holds it in her mouth like Joel did, letting it sear the inside of her cheeks and coat her tongue.
Be like him: strong, tough, shit together.
Snap.
A branch, then the crunch of boots in the snow.
Her heart jumps, panic surging up to meet the liquid still in her mouth. Eyes wide, she fumbles to screw the small cap on with her gloved hands, scrambling to close it. The moment it’s on, she’s tossing the metal canister back onto the top of his pack, and throwing the map down over it.
She scoots back to her spot just as Joel’s boots come into view out of the dark. Her heart’s still hammering, the last sip of alcohol trapped in her cheeks, the burn creeping down into her teeth.
She holds it there, the heat mixing with the cold air biting at her face.
He gives her a nod as he crosses back into their circle.
She does the same.
And then, slowly, she swallows.
--------𓊔--------
She walks into the bathroom with zero expectations.
She pushes open the warped door with her shoulder; its hinges groan long and loud - ancient like everything else in this shitty house. It’s a small room, tight and cold. There is a chunk taken out of the tub, enough to see its insides lined with a deep brown ring, fuzzy with a bit of moss, and the pedestal sink is drooping into the ground, tiles below pitching into a rotting subfloor.
It’s shit, but not like shit shit. They’d slowed their pace after yesterday’s clusterfuck, but that didn’t mean she got to stop moving. Or cut corners. And it is just getting a passing grade in salvageableness - good enough for a quick sweep - in, out, done.
Still, she’s already mentally moved on to the next room - do the same routine somewhere else in the house: open cabinets, look in closets, grab anything remotely useful or edible or older than her and Joel combined.
She exhales hard and takes a full step in.
The smell hits her first.
It doesn’t take long to realize it’s not the bathroom, but her.
Sweat and grime, rebounding off the cramped walls and hitting her right back.
A week’s worth of gross and everything that was yesterday.
When they had ventured in from the great outdoors to a small town - “Eagle”, of all names - they immediately walked into a horde. One bloater, a handful of infected, nowhere to go. After a quiet but quick dash down an alley, Joel threw her into a dumpster, toppled over the side after her, and slammed the lid shut as the dead stomped by.
Hours passed - a sliver of yellow light sneaking through the door slit tracking the time for them like a sundial. Hunched. Breathing slow. Drenched in trash juice and shit. Whatever had been rotting in there soaked through their clothes into her skin, a film of yuck and guck.
When it was clear, Joel didn’t waste time. No cleaning, no scrubbing. Just go. Building to alley to building again, on a mission to make up for time lost hiding away.
The smell reminds her of FEDRA - of home, in the worst kind of way.
Back at the QZ, there was a group of people nicknamed the “poop patrol.” They would set up camp outside the sewer maintenance site to beat everyone to the jurisdiction assignment, snatching up the job willingly. It paid well in ration cards - double, sometimes triple. The catch was the smell. It marked you long after you were done working - distinctive with a certain sorta sour twang.
It was awful then, and it’s awful now, but it’s not stopping her.
She shrugs it off, crouches to check under the sink.
But her eyes catch the mirror.
She pauses. Squints. Tilts her head a little.
The mirror is a grimy old thing, frost-kissed, little white crystal webs climbing up from its corners and edging toward a long diagonal hairline crack that splits it in two. Leaning in close, her warm breath fogs the glass; she raises her forearm to wipe away the haze and thin layer of dirt. The fabric of her sleeve snags on the cracked pane, and she stops, carefully pulls her arm away from the mirror, and settles back off the sink.
And it throws her.
She thought she’d look…worse?
Given how she smells, she expected swamp monster - a thick layer of dirt on her face, maybe something green, goopy, caked on. But really, her face isn’t that bad. Sure, there are a few spots here and there, and a frizzy mess of a ponytail, baby hairs poking out every which way, the worst of it, a clump of something matted to it on the side.
Joel hadn’t looked too bad either, now that she thinks about it.
Still weird though.
She hasn’t seen herself in a while. Not clearly. Not without it being distorted in the aluminum of Joel’s flask, or muddled in a puddle of dirty water. The last good look was back in the house after the resort. Her face was all cuts and bruises then - swollen and puffy, skin twinged red by a faint film of blood that refused to leave her face. It was bad. Bad enough for Joel to grimace when he looked her way and thought she was seeing.
This version of her is different, but not much better.
The scratches have started to heal up - fresh silvery pink lines on her eyebrow and nose. Most of the bruising is gone, but there is one stubborn blotch - a deep yellow crescent streaking the inside corner of her under eye. Her skin’s looking a little pale - chapped, dried lips with red around the nose.
She stares. Too long.
Even before then, she wasn’t a stranger to rocking a fucked up face - hell, it was practically a badge of honor at FEDRA - and looking pretty has never been much of a priority.
She’s been ugly before. That’s not it.
Outside is matching her insides.
Still fucked. Still broken. Still not “healing,” no matter what Joel keeps saying.
He hasn’t used that word exactly, but yesterday, while they were sitting in the bottom of that dumpster, he’d looked her in the eye and said: “It’s just gonna take time. Like a broken bone. You’ll get there.”
It was unprompted encouragement, and she had zero idea what had brought it on. She thought she had kept up well with him all day. Looking at herself in the mirror now, she gets it a little more.
But she also believes it less.
She hadn’t exactly taken it to heart yesterday, but she sure as hell won’t be now.
It’s not just the scars. Or the bruise.
She doesn’t need an old ass mirror to see it. There is a piece of him there like he left something behind. A mark. Like Joel didn’t get every last bit of his blood off her face, and now it’s been seeping into her slowly, turning her just as rotten as he was.
Molding. Spreading. Worse every day.
If she could cut it out, whatever it is, she would; but’s it’s hard to tell where it starts and she ends.
And she hates that, hates herself for that, hates how she keeps hating herself for -
“Ellie?” Joel’s voice cracks up through the floor, voice echoing.
It makes her flinch. Her heart skips a beat. She closes her eyes.
“Elllliiieee.”
Sometimes he says it just right.
“Ya’ good up there? Find anythin’?”
“Fine!” she calls back, forcing herself to sound casual, giving her head a little shake to clear away the thoughts. “Be down in a second.”
She yanks open the mirror cabinet. It rattles loudly, the old rigid glass shaking with the force of the pull.
Inside, the shelves aren’t as barren as usual: bottles of face wash, toothpaste, lotion, some sort of oil, all long expired but still intact. Shuffling through them, Her hand stops on a small teal box. She pulls it out, reads the label, snorts. Nice.
Shifting things around further, her fingers freeze when they push aside a dusty bottle of sunscreen. There, tucked in the corner, something small. Orange. Cylindrical.
Her hearts thuds oddly in her chest as she stares it, stuck in surprise.
She knows what it is before she digs it out. Slowly, she plucks it from its place, grabbing it with her pointer and thumb. The label is faded, the writing barely legible, but she doesn’t need to read it to know what’s inside. Through the orange tint of the plastic, she can easily see the small white tablets. It’s almost filled to the brim.
Holding it up to her face, she gives it a little shake.
And suddenly, she’s not in the bathroom anymore.
It’s a humid summer night, sticky even with her screenless window open, bugs coming in with a much needed breeze. A little over a year ago. Magnus. He has that same type of bottle, waves it around with that same sort of jangle.
“Oh come’on Williams,” Magnus says, shaking the bottle obnoxiously in her ear, “what are you? chicken?”
“Dude I’m not chicken,” she replies, pushing him away and rolling her eyes, “but if Watch fucking finds out I’m going straight to the Hole.”
“And?”
“And, I’ve literally spent more time down there this month than in my own bed.”
“Abel’s already taken some,” Magnus pushes, jutting his head in Riley’s direction where she is happily - blissfully - sprawling out on his bottom bunk.
“You did?” she questions, brow furrowing as she spins around to face Riley, ponytail hitting Magnus in the face.
“Yeah Els, this one’s nice….,” she basically sings, raising her arm and twirling it in the air, fingers grazing the bottom slats of the bunk. “Nothing’s going to happen. Just chill for like once in your life,” she adds, turning her head toward her and giving her the signature ‘lets get into shit’ look.
Biting her lip, she juts her hand out to the side, practically hitting Magnus in the chest.
If Riley was doing it, then well….“Give me some.”
A loud bang from downstairs jolts her back - breaks the memory in half. The bottle slips and lands in the sink, sliding up and down the porcelain sides before coming to rest by the drain.
She retrieves it fast, clutching it tight, but then she freezes, unsure what to do next.
Not unsure. No, she knows. But that’s also the problem. Could she. Should she. Would she.
It goes into her coat pocket.
Glancing back up at the medicine cabinet, she slips her pack off her back and plops it in the sink, unzipping it in the same swoop. She swiftly grabs some things of interest, dropping them inside and beating them down into the little space she’s got left. The fabric and teeth of her zipper pull as she works to close it - shakes the pack to make more room before finally sealing it shut and hoisting it onto her shoulders, ready to go.
She starts to close the cabinet, then rethinks, and snatches the condoms too, before slamming it shut - too hard.
Half the mirror sloshes off, cracks and slides right from the frame, landing in the sink with a loud clatter.
She stares at what’s left: half of her reflection.
Somehow, that feels better.
With a sigh she leaves the bathroom. Slowly. Quietly. For no particular reason. She coddles the door to shut, holding the handle down as she pulls it closed, bracing her hand at the door jam so the wood hits gently.
At the top of the stairs, she pauses. Forces her shoulders up, pushes a crooked little smile across her face, nods once at no one.
Just pretend. For a second. Just keep walking.
The grin fades with every step down the stairs. Her posture unravels to match, shoulders hunching, chest pulling in.
She finds Joel in the kitchen, half-crouched, rummaging through a drawer. Something metal clinks. Something wooden scrapes. He looks up as she enters, eyes scanning her for longer than they need to. Out of sight for all of fifteen minutes and she’s getting a full once over.
Like always.
There’s a sliver of concern there, but he doesn’t push it like how she knows he wants to. Instead, he casually asks: “Everythin' alright?"
“Yep,” she answers, popping the ‘p.’
"Good, good," He shoves the drawer shut and wipes his hands on his jeans. "We should get goin’.”
She nods, eyes drifting to the counter’s edge. The laminate is peeling up and her fingers pick at it automatically. Joel’s eyes fall to her other hand - still holding the box she found. He jerks his chin toward it and asks, “Grab anythin’?”
“Mmhmm…” she hums, drawing it out as she steps toward him. The old sense of mischief somewhere inside her does all the heavy work, smirk curling at her lips. Show time.
“Found something for you.”
She tosses it - underhand, lazy; it bounces in his hands before he scrambles to catch it, like a hot potato.
“For when you get back to Jackson,” she teases, sauntering past his shoulder to head for the back door. She turns backward briefly, looking to clock his reaction.
Joel looks down and turns the dusty teal box over in his hand: “Trojan Bareskin Raw, Regular.”
His cheeks flush. Actually flush.
She’s seen it once, maybe, way back when in the pickup reading that porno magazine, but even then he wasn’t quite so beet red.
"Real hilarious," he mutters, eyes crinkling with a smile he’s holding back.
“Joel and the ladiesss,”she drawls all sing-songey, eyebrows wiggling as she yanks open the back door. Cold air rushes at her, and she steps outside, voice echoing behind her, ridiculous and kiddish.
Just what she knows Joel likes - old Ellie.
Good Ellie.
Her hands drop into her pockets.
Right: the smooth cool wood of her switchblade, resting in its usual spot. Easy. Accessible. Trusted.
Left: round bottle with a slight give, sitting likes it belonged there. Easy. Accessible.
She doesn’t think about it long.
She draws in a deep breath - the kind meant to reset something - but it doesn’t get far, doesn’t do it. The door swings shut behind her with a muted thud. She closes her eyes, uninterested in staring at the snow-blurred world beyond the porch.
Maybe it will become trusted too.
--------𓊔--------
Her feet pound into the tile, each step clapping loudly and reverberating up her legs til it meets the beat in her chest. Her pulse hammers in her throat, so loud she swears the whole mall can hear it.
She can’t remember why she is running but knows she has to keep going. The endless corridors are dimly lit, and the air feels thick, tinged with an undeniable scent of decay and something smokey.
She rounds a corner, sliding to a stop as she spots the carousel. Next to it stands a figure, back turned - broad-shouldered, familiar.
He’ll know why.
“Joel!” she desperately calls, her voice echoing off the tile walls and floors. With hurried steps, she approaches him, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
Time slows and she can’t help but focus on her hand making contact. He turns. It’s not Joel.
David’s face greets her, his eyes gleaming with creepy delight. Her eyes drift to his hand - it holds the cleaver. She stumbles back, a scream clawing its way up her throat.
Her foot catches on something solid and she falls backward, landing hard as she hits the ground, the breath knocked out of her. Unable to move, she stares up at the ceiling - long dark wooden beams highlighted by fire she can not see. It makes perfect sense as if she wasn’t in the mall just seconds ago.
When she pulls herself to sit, she goes to look for what she has fallen over, knowing it wasn’t there before when she was running. When she looks down, she’s on top of him - straddling him - staring into the contents of his eviscerated head that melts into the red carpeting of the restaurant.
Joel.
David’s laughter pierces the air as he comes to a crouch next to her, his face inches from hers, his breath fetid and warm. Her heart hammers against her ribcage. She wants to scream, to cry, but no sound escapes her lips. She raises her hands, turning them over and back. They’re coated in blood, dripping in it. One is still clutching the cleaver she thought David held just seconds ago.
How?
“You’re just like me, Ellie,” David hisses, as he takes the cleaver from her hand, prying her fingers off the handle one by one - her grip like glue. With disturbing precision, he slots it into a gruesome opening in Joel's head, the blade nestling perfectly back into a long deep slice. “A match made in heaven - by God, for God,” he murmurs. He’s looking at Joel - no, they are looking at Joel - but she knows his last words were about her.
With a rough shove, he dislodges her from atop him. She tumbles to the side without any resistance, her shoulder connecting to the ground with a dull thud, before he pushes at her again, moving her on her back. Her gaze drifts upwards, fixating on the parts of the ceiling where flames lick at the wood.
She knows she has to get out, but she can’t.
Her body won’t move an inch as David mounts her, knees tucking close in at her hips, bone against bone. His weight is oppressive, the stench of him suffocating. She tries to move her head to look away, but no matter where her eyes go, they only seem to find his crooked smile, his scrappy blonde beard, and his piercing blue eyes.
His hand reaches out, fingers harshly grazing her cheek, nails scratching long at her skin. His hand continues on, trailing all the way down her body and crossing over at the junction of where hers meets his, fingers moving without pause up his own leg to his pant buckle.
“And behold, for it is said, ‘The two will become one flesh’,” he proclaims with a long exhale, eyelids fluttering in pleasure, as he drops his head back, angled toward the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobs - laughing.
In the time it takes her to blink, his pants are down.
She can hear her screams ringing in her ears, but she also knows her mouth isn’t moving in the slightest.
She tries to look away from it, but it just gets closer and closer and closer. She closes her eyes. Hard.
She braces for the next part.
The worst part.
But when her eyes snap open, the worst isn’t there.
She jolts awake, heart slamming against her ribs, breath hitching in short, sharp bursts through her nose. Her fingers are clenched tight around her switchblade, caught mid-squeeze.
All that’s there is Joel’s head - intact.
His back is to her, sleeping a few feet away on his own bed.
Right where he should be.
Just a dream.
Sweat clings to her skin, cold at the nape of her neck. Her pulse starts to slow. The scent of dust and old foam creeps into her nose. Not a floor. Not fire. Not blood.
Just musty plastic and damp cotton.
He had found them an entire fucking mattress store to hold up in for the night - ample places to sleep. He had been practically giddy when the door was unlocked. Tried to hide it, but the dumb sparkle in his eye gave him away.
“Upgradin’ us for the night…Should help wi- get us some real rest,” he explained while ushering them towards the back corner of the store, leading them through rows and rows of beds, only to single out two mattresses protected from apocalyptic neglect by plastic covers.
“With the nightmares.” That’s what he was going to say before catching himself. They’ve never talked about it point blank, but it’s been pretty fucking obvious she’s been getting them.
Unfortunately, his efforts havn’t helped in the slightest.
A flash of his head in pieces hits her, unprompted. It presses down on her chest - tight, tighter. She wants to go to him, just to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, remind herself he’s still here, still in one piece.
But she doesn’t.
He needs the sleep more than she needs the reassurance.
And besides, she’s supposed to be Good Ellie, or Old Ellie, or whatever. She’s supposed to be the Ellie that’s getting better, and curling up next to him like a big baby is not better.
Far from it.
She doesn’t need his comfort, doesn’t need his help. She’s Good Ellie. Wants to be. Really.
With a sigh that puffs out her cheeks, she turns onto her back. The mattress protector beneath her crackles softly with every movement. She peeks out the corner of her eye- Joel’s still out, dead to the world, his good ear pressed into the plastic.
Her hand brushes against the cold, smooth surface, and her eyes roam the ceiling, watching the way the moonlight casts in from the large display window. It cuts across - long shadows moving through like breeze. She tries to clear her head, focus on how they go light and fade dark, but of course it doesn’t help. She wants blank, but instead her stupid fucking brain lobs back the image of David straddling her, leering and grinning from above.
She exhales hard through her nose and turns onto her side, back to Joel.
But all that gets her is a face full of poster. A whole dark wall covered in advertisements.
“Picking one of our beds shouldn’t be scary. Rest assured, no nightmares ahead with the Comfort Plush Plus Mattress.”
Her molars clamp down.
No nightmares.
Her outstretched hand clenches into a fist.
Yeah fucking right.
She wants to rip it off the wall, shred it with her switchblade, drive the tip in again and again until her arm aches.
Fucking liars.
She’s been dealing with the dreams for two months now, and they aren’t getting better, just worse - no matter what she does: warm water before bed, music to go to sleep, burying herself in her sleeping bag - hell, she was so desperate one night she let Joel rake his hand through her ponytail while she used his thigh as a pillow.
A nice plushy mattress doesn’t solve her type of problem.
She shifts restlessly again, burrowing her head deeper into her backpack-turned-pillow, eyes squeezing shut. She bites down into the fabric to muffle the frustrated groan building in her throat.
She just -
the sound of her muscles clenching rumbles like a wave, growing and dissipating into nothing in her head.
- just wants to not feel so goddamn scared all the fucking time.
Pressed deep into her pack, her pulse reverberates in her ear- a deep thump, thump, thump. It sounds like how Joel stomps his boots out every time they come somewhere inside - even when the place is already destroyed to shit.
Snow. Cold. Winter.
“End of winter you’ll be feelin’ different” - “It’s just gonna take time.”
She can’t fucking wait that long.
Her hand sneaks into her coat pocket without much thought, fingers finding the little plastic bottle she has tucked away. It’s been there for a little over a week, but just as something to fiddle with - rolling it over and over in her hand while they walk.
Until now.
At a tortoise’s pace, she unearths it from her pocket. Every little tiny rustle feels like it’s passing through one of those FEDRA megaphones, amplified and yelled toward Joel. She freezes. Waits.
Nothing. Joel doesn’t move.
Still, she tries to keep her body motionless, except for the small movement of her arm - just in case he turns and sees her. When it’s finally free, she props herself up on one elbow, angling so he can’t catch any of the orange bottle if he were to roll over.
She waits a minute. Maybe for him. Maybe for her.
Her palm presses down on the white cap and twists, easing the top off. With her pointer finger, she slides one out of the top of the bottle, catching it in her palm as it crests the lip.
Meds decay.
She grabs another. Caps the bottle, shoves it back in her coat. Her palm opens to two small white ovals- harmless looking.
She hasn’t checked the label- probably wouldn’t have been able to read it in the dark anyway, but they look familiar to what the kids at FEDRA used to pass around.
Can’t be much different.
She rolls the pills between her fingers, lets the more rational part of her brain try to talk her out of it -
But it doesn’t.
Not in any way that matters.
Some other part of her - maybe the tired one, or maybe the one that’s bad and messy and always hungry for quiet now - says this isn’t that bad.
Bad would be staying up all night and slowing them down tomorrow. Bad would be going for a walk and not coming back. Bad would be downing the whole bottle.
This, it’s not that.
Could be, but it’s not.
Joel wouldn’t want any of those.
He would want her to go to him, wake him up. He’d mumble something like, “ain’t botherin’, wasn’t sleeping, just resting’ my eyes.” Tell her to settle in and put her head on his shoulder, arm wrapping lazily around hers. And then she’d have to pretend - she’d play the bit she has on deck now - heard something that woke her up, unnecessarily explain, “you were on your good ear”, and hope he’s too sleepy to get up and check for something that’s not there.
She could do that, but she’s already done a lot of pretending today. And faking it is easier when he’s not watching.
So what’s left - the best option: two pills.
Popping them into her mouth, she swallows them dry. They scratch at her throat as they slide down, and she gulps a few extra times, using spit for water.
Settling back onto her side, she wiggles into a decent-enough position, eyes drifting back to the wall.
That same dumbass poster stares at her.
“...shouldn’t be scary…”
She reads it again.
“...rest assured, no nightmares ahead...”
And again.
“...Comfort Push Plus Mattress.”
Her molars grind together.
With a huff, she turns over, shifting back to the only other choice of a position. The mattress crinkles beneath her - loud and obnoxious. She doesn’t care if it wakes him.
Maybe it will. But it probably won’t.
His breathing is steady. Deep and even - one Mississippi, two Mississippi. They didn’t get to go through there, but she saw signs for the river - Missis..sippi - thinks they crossed it in the truck.
Before Kansas City.
Sam.
“If you turn into a monster, is it still you inside?”
She squeezes her eyes shut. Hard. Holds it til she hears her head rumble like before. Her fist does the same, tips of her fingers digging into the scar she left there for him.
Fuck.
She doesn’t want that in her head now, either.
One minute turns to two, then two turn into several, and finally her body begins to soften. Her heartbeat slows.
She takes a deep breath, lets it out inch by inch.
Her gut tells her to resist - not give in to the chance of another horrible dream, but she doesn’t have much choice.
One Mississippi.
“Stay awake with me?”
Like last time, she doesn’t.
--------𓊔--------
It’s one of the first days in, like, forever where it’s not freezing balls out.
No flurries, no wind - just a bite of crispness in the air. Mild enough that the snow patches have started to shrink, thinning at the edges, glinting where the sun hits them. Water beads in small puddles along the road, soaking into the dirt, turning the world all mushy and soft again.
They’ve been moving for most of the morning, and the world’s been slowly changing around them, no longer the dead gray blige of winter. The trees are denser now, thickening along the sides of the trail. Their tips are tinged green, soft buds curling open. Birds chirp in fits and bursts. A few yellow wildflowers have started pushing up through the mud, stubborn little things.
It’s nice.
Or it’s supposed to be.
Joel treks ahead of her, steady and quiet, boots sinking into the half-thawed path with a wet rhythm. His coat flaps against his back, swinging loose from where he’s stuffed it hanging out from behind his pack. She watches the sway of it, the way it moves in time with the shift of his gait.
He’s still got a whisper of a limp. Easier to see it from behind. She mentioned it yesterday, but he said it was his feet not his side. The uneven swing of the fabric is kind of a dead giveaway.
Sun at full rise, it’s warm enough now that neither of them needs to be wearing their massive winter jackets. But her’s is still on. Zipped up. Fists buried deep in the pockets.
It just feels safer that way.
Her eyes stay busy, flicking between the trees, scanning the edges of the trail. Every rustle makes her stomach clench. She checks behind them every few minutes - practically a habit now. Nothing is there. Ever. Still, the baby hairs on the back of her neck prickle with a false warning, and she has to look.
Something's out there. She knows it.
She knows she’s being unreasonable. There’s nothing even remotely hinting at any danger, but she can’t shake it. She really hasn’t been able to shake the feeling all winter. It just undulates - kicking her ass one day and leaving her in relative peace the next.
Today is somewhere in between the two.
It makes her throat feel tight and her head hurt. Why her head, she has no idea, but it always has her brain aching behind her eyes, an annoying pressure right at her forehead.
“... wait till the weather turns - spring - you’ll be better by spring, it’s just goin’ to take some time.”
Spring is here.
She still feels like shit.
Her fingers twist around the orange bottle tucked deep in her left pocket, rolling it over and over, nervous energy breaking through her fingertips.
Joel finally breaks the silence that’s stretched on for hours.
“State park should be just up ahead,” he calls back, voice a little winded, but upbeat.
She nods, even though he’s not looking. “Cool,” she mumbles. Dull. Fake.
Her pace slows as the road tilts upward, gravel crunching under her boots as she works the small hill now in there path. The pressure in her skull spikes again, flashing hot before sinking back down. She grits her teeth and drags a hand from her pocket, rubs the heel of her hand against her eye and temple.
It doesn’t help.
But she knows what will.
He glances back at her, brow faintly creased. Mind reading is just a thing in comic books, but she swears Joel has that power sometimes.
“You holding up okay, kiddo?"
She straightens up a bit, nods fast, and pulls out a smile she barely manages to scrounge up from god knows where.
"Yeah, just thinking," she calls back.
He waits for a moment - she knows he wants more, good chatty Ellie - but when she doesn’t add anything, he simply nods and turns back.
Down the road.
West.
Onward.
It takes only seconds for her body to slump back into the shape it was in before. Shoulders low. Feet dragging. Hands pushing down deep, like they’ll punch out the bottom if she tries hard enough.
Joel pauses at the top of the hill, boots planting in front of a duo of signs, one dirty yellow proclaiming “No Outlet,” the other, large brown and weather-worn:
Rifle State Park Entrance – 4.5 mi.
Parking - 5 mi.
Campground & Cabins - 8 mi.
Scenic Loop - 10 mi.
He’s already pulling the map from his pack as she catches up to him. A soft burn settles in her legs from just the tiny stupid push to climb the hill, bridge the gap between her and him.
He’s staring at the paper like it will tell him something different than the massive fucking sign in front of them. Like there’s a third hidden option. Something different then west. It flaps in his grip, caught in the wind. The warm air brushes past her shoulder, frees a tucked strand of hair from behind her ear. A shiver rolls down her spine.
It’s basically spring.
It still feels like winter.
Her grip tightens around the small container.
One more - or a few - could fix that.
Squinting through the sun, one eye shut, she tilts her head, channels Old Good Ellie:
“Break soon?”