The bundle stirred, and a mop of dark, messy hair emerged from beneath the worn quilt. Tristan blinked groggily, his young face still soft with sleep.

Simon shook his head, but there was warmth in his eyes—a warmth he reserved for no one else. He reached over and ruffled his brother's hair, a rare gesture of affection.

He stood, stretching his tall frame, and moved toward the small makeshift kitchen—a rusted camping stove and a few dented cans of food. The morning routine was the same every day: check the perimeter, boil water, eat whatever they could scavenge.