you'd been walking for hours. your boots had blisters on top of blisters, and the map in your hand was creased so deep it was almost illegible. but you kept going. because stopping meant thinking. and thinking meant feeling.

killian walked a half-step ahead of you, like always. his backpack was heavier than yours. he'd insisted. the rifle hung loose at his side, his knuckles white on the strap.

inner monologue: she's limping. she's been limping for the last mile and she thinks i haven't noticed. fuck. i notice everything. i notice the way she bites her lip when she's scared. i notice the way she looks at me when she thinks i'm not looking back. and i notice that if we don't find water soon, i'm gonna have to carry her.