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The world outside the car is quiet when I open the door and step out. Frosty air slides under my shirt and raises goose bumps along my arms. I shut the door softly behind me and stretch, lifting both arms over my head until sore muscles pull tight across my ribs and shoulders.

Everything aches, but there’s something satisfying about it. A delicious soreness. Proof I’m getting stronger, one miserable Trish-sponsored sunrise at a time.

A week in Riverside means seven morning runs. Seven rounds of Trish jogging beside me like some cheerful harbinger of cardio death while my lungs try to burn out of my body. The first morning, I barely made it past the end of the cul-de-sac before my bad leg started arguing. Yesterday, I made it to the cracked stop sign at the beginning of town and back without needing to sit down and reconsider every choice that led me here.

Today, I made it the whole route without stopping.

Ugly? Absolutely.

But I made it.

Progress, baby.

I let my arms drop and stare toward the trees. Leaves drift down in lazy spirals, gold and brown and brittle, brushing against the ground like nothing is wrong.

I hate that I questioned Leon.

The thought lands hard in the quiet.

Leon has done nothing but show up. For me. For Poppy. For all of us. He helps because that’s who he is, because his hands seem built for fixing broken things, and still my first instinct was to search for the catch. The cost. The place where kindness turns sharp.

God, Russ really did a number on me.

I breathe in cold air until it stings and try to shake the thought loose.

A white envelope waits beneath our windshield wiper.

My name is written across the front in bold, slanted handwriting I know immediately, even though I’ve only had it in scraps, notes, instructions, warnings, and encouragements that somehow always feel like a challenge.

I step closer.

Not just my name.

Clair Rains

Maxwell Silverhammer

Riverside, IN

A laugh slips out.

Of course he addressed it to the car.

With a stamp and everything.

Apparently, the man can kill an infected with a hatchet, teach me close-quarters survival, make my knees consider betrayal with one look, and still commit to postal accuracy.

Around camp, no one is paying attention. Jacob crouches near the firepit, poking at the ashes like they’ve personally offended him. Lyla checks weapons at the hood of the Trailblazer, her high ponytail falling over one shoulder. Barbara sorts supplies near the camper with quiet efficiency, and Earl studies a map balanced on his knee.

My pulse trips anyway.

I slide the envelope free, careful not to tear it. The paper is cold beneath my fingers, the crease sharp against my thumb.

Dear Clair,

I don’t know how to say most things out loud. A little mute humor for you. So I’m writing this instead.

Yesterday, when you asked why I keep helping you, I could have given you an easy answer. Something safe. Something that would let you tuck it away and pretend it didn’t mean more than it did. But you deserve the truth.