Tents dotted the clearing near the quarry—some patched together from tarps, others salvaged from homes now overrun. The smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke hung in the air.

By the main fire, a few survivors lingered over breakfast. Shane was already up, talking low with Lori near the RV. Carl sat nearby, scraping a stick against a rock.

Dylan Grimes sat apart from the group, perched on an overturned cooler with a half-empty bottle of water in his hand. His eyes weren't on his brother's family or the others milling about.

They were fixed on the Peletier tent.

He'd been watching it for the better part of an hour. The way the canvas flap stayed shut longer than it should. The low, muffled voices inside. The way Ed had stumbled out first, zipping his pants, heading off toward the tree line without a word.

Then Carol emerged. She moved quickly toward the wash buckets, head down.

A beat later, Y/n stepped out.

Dylan's jaw tightened.