The woods had gone quiet again.
Not the good kind of quiet. Not peaceful. The kind that made the back of your neck itch. No wind. No birds. Just the crunch of boots through softening snow and the creak of damp branches swaying like they didn't want to be heard.
The older man pushed through a low thicket, a fire axe gripped loosely in one hand, his coat heavy with old blood and road dust. His face was worn, not just with age but with grief, like someone who had stopped believing things would get better a long time ago. He moved slow but sure, careful not to waste steps.
His companion—leaner, younger, dressed in a dark jacket with a battered crossbow on his back—muttered something under his breath and swatted at a branch.
They were both tired. But they kept moving.
"It's way too quiet," the younger man—Mark—finally said.
Lee didn't answer. He just scanned the treeline. His fingers flexed on the axe handle.
His thoughts kept drifting back to the motel. To Clementine. She'd barely spoken when he left that morning, just gave him one of those looks that said more than words ever could. Katjaa was watching her now, but there were too many cracks forming in the group to feel safe.
Kenny had shouted at Lilly again the night before. Carley had taken Lilly's side for once, which made things worse. Everyone was splitting into corners. Duck had a cough that wasn't going away. Supplies were thinning. Tempers were shorter than the days.
Lee had needed to get out for a bit.
Find something. Food, maybe. Or just a reason to believe things weren't falling apart.
Mark adjusted the strap on his crossbow. "Any idea how far we've gone?"
"Few miles from the highway. Maybe more."
"Feels like ten."
They moved downhill into a small ravine, where the snow had thinned into wet patches of mud. Lee paused, crouching low near a strange shape at the base of a tree. A ring of blackened stones. Old firepit. Mostly dead.
Mark crouched beside him. "Someone camped here."
"Not long ago."
They didn't speak for a while. Then Lee pointed ahead. There, half-covered by brush and wedged under a fallen tree, was a tarp.
No more than three feet high, draped into a crooked lean-to. Just big enough to crawl under. A mess of leaves and dirt packed along the edges.
Next to it, resting against a log, was a handmade bow. Primitive. Chipped, slightly curved. Beside it, three rough arrows. Hardened points, no fletching.
Two dented cans sat nearby—one filled with cloudy water, the other sealed with a strip of torn fabric. A closer look showed jerky. Or something close to it.
Mark whistled low. "This ain't just some scavenger."
Lee stood slowly, heart tight in his chest. He eyed the structure. The scale of it. How low it sat. How small the footprints were near the firepit.
"That's a kid's shelter."
Mark turned to him. "What?"
Lee nodded. "No adult built that. And no adult's living under it."
They both looked around again. The silence returned, heavier now.
Lee's mind filled with images of Clementine. What if she had never found him? What if this—this sad little setup—was what she'd ended up with? Alone, cold, wild-eyed?
Something rustled ahead.
Lee raised a hand. Mark stilled.
A figure stepped through the brush, small and wiry, arms full of dead branches. He moved like a fox—quiet, fast, always looking over his shoulder.
Jake.
They didn't know his name yet. But they saw everything else.
His coat was too big, his boots didn't match, and his face was gaunt, smudged with dirt and ash. His eyes scanned the clearing before he stepped into it—and stopped cold.
He saw them.
Dropped the firewood.
Didn't run. Didn't speak.
Lee felt something shift deep in his chest.
Mark took a cautious step back. "He's just a kid..."
"No," Lee said softly. "Not just."
The boy's hands twitched toward the bow, but he didn't reach for it.
Lee raised his hands. "Hey. We're not here to hurt you."
Jake said nothing. His face betrayed nothing. He just watched.
Mark whispered, "He built this? Alone?"
Lee didn't respond.
He just took a slow, quiet step forward.
"Let's talk."