I looked at Maggie's peaceful looking sleeping face for a long moment before I started to slowly untangle myself from her carefully so I wouldn't wake her up.
I lifted Maggie's arm off my chest and set it down gently on the mattress, freed my legs from hers, then I slid out from under the heavy blankets, shivering as my feet landed on the cold floorboards without making a sound.
That's when I started putting on my clothes.
I pulled on my thermal undershirt, then my underpants, followed by my usual black sturdy cargo pants and long sleeve thick black shirt.
Next, I laced up my combat boots tight and strapped my belt together. The weight of the holster and my tactical knife felt familiar, grounding my resolve more to leave.
I tossed my brown leather bomber jacket over my shoulders and grabbed my gear bag from the corner of the room.
Before heading out the door, I turned back toward the bed.
Maggie had rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. I stepped over, leaned down, and planted a quiet kiss on her forehead.
"I'll be back safe," I whispered. "I promise."
She stirred slightly, letting out a soft sigh, but stayed asleep.
I turned around, opened the door slowly, stepped out into the chilly hallway, and closed the bedroom door quietly behind me.
Downstairs, the house was just starting to wake up.
Morgan was already in the kitchen, sitting at the long wooden table with a steaming mug of black coffee in his hands.
He looked up as I came down the steps, taking in my packed gear and double-checked weapons.
"So today's the day, huh?" he asked, his voice low so as not to wake the rest of the house.
"You knew?" I said, raising an eyebrow.
"Please don't insult my intelligence, Zephyr." Morgan snorted softly as he nursed his mug.
"After all these months we spent together, if I didn't know you're not the type to stay put for long, I myself would doubt whether my brain's still workin' or not."
"Yeah," I chuckled. "I guess that's about right."
I set down my pack, grabbed a mug, and sat down facing him.
Morgan grabbed the coffee pitcher and poured me a drink.
"Did you tell anyone you're leavin'?" Morgan said as he filled the mug.
"Just Maggie."
"Good call," Morgan chortled. "She'd have your hide had you not."
Hearing him say that, I remembered the vicious look Maggie shot me yesterday night and broke into a cold sweat as goosebumps ran from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.
"Yeah, you can say that again."
Morgan stared at me for a long minute, then he broke into a quiet laughter. "Whipped."
"Hey man, I can say the same about you," I protested playfully.
Hearing me say that, Morgan's laughter came to an abrupt halt as if someone choked him.
Both of us exchanged looks before we burst into quiet laughter again.
"Gonna miss havin' you around, Zephyr," Morgan said, shaking his head with a faint smile.
I hugged myself in mock disgust. "Whoa, I don't swing that way, man."
Morgan choked on his coffee, his face flushing red as he coughed into his fist before glaring at me. "You know what I mean, you brat!"
I just chuckled at him.
Morgan then sat his mug down and stood up. He walked over to me, reached out his hand, and clapped me heavily on the shoulder.
"Take care out there, Zephyr," he said, his tone thick with honest concern. "You gave us a home here. You gave my son a future when I thought he wouldn't have one anymore. Just make sure you bring yourself back safely."
"I will, Morgan. Keep an eye on everything for me, will you?"
"Always do," he said with a faint nod.
I gave him a sharp nod, then turned around, grabbed my pack, and pushed open the front door.
The crisp morning air hit my face as I stepped out onto the porch. I looked around for a moment before I headed toward where we keep our vehicles.
I decided to take my trusty old truck this time. It's been a while since I took that old girl for a ride.
I opened the driver's door, hopped in, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine came to life with a muffled roar on the first try. I thanked Jim in my mind as I looked at the fuel gauge—it was completely full.
The man never missed a detail when it came to keeping our fleet ready to roll.
I looked at the farmhouse one last time, especially on the second floor, but I didn't linger.
I shifted into gear, pressed my foot onto the pedal, and guided the truck through the gates, speeding away as soon as I was on the open road.
The asphalt stretched out ahead of me like a black ribbon cutting through overgrown weeds and rusted, abandoned vehicles.
The morning fog was still thick over the trees, hanging low over the ditches.
It felt weird being out here alone again after spending months surrounded by the noise of the farmhouse—no chatter, no hammers hitting nails, no kids running around.
Just the steady rumble of the V8 under the hood and the occasional wind rustling through the woods.
My pack sat next to me on the passenger seat alongside my rifle, while the long range radio I had Jim install hummed with soft static.
I had a map in the glove compartment. First stop was checking on the Vatos gang in Atlanta, if they're still alive.
If they are, I'd reach an accord with them, same as Woodbury They were shown to be good people.
If they're already gone, then I'll just keep moving to my next target.
(To be continued...)