Outskirts of the highway. An abandoned house.
The feeble glow of a kerosene lamp pushed back the darkness in the bedroom. Bryan sat on the edge of the bed, carefully examining Sarah's dislocated calf.
After hearing the radio warning about the infected horde heading for the bridge, they'd known better than to approach. Instead, they'd found a high vantage point, hoping to spot Joel and Tommy.
But beyond the pools of light cast by distant streetlamps, everything was darkness.
Only the distant thunder of gunfire and the shrieks of infected echoed through the night.
With no sign of the others, Bryan had carried Sarah along the opposite side of the bridge until they found this abandoned lakeside house.
The plan was simple: rest tonight, scout the bridge area at first light.
The house was a mess when they arrived—belongings scattered everywhere. The previous occupants had clearly fled in a hurry. Power was out, and the generator in the basement had been drained of fuel.
Fortunately, Bryan found a working kerosene lamp in the storage shed outside.
Looking at the swelling around Sarah's knee joint, he knew that without proper treatment, things would only get worse. Permanent damage wasn't out of the question.
This is bad.
Sarah was already nodding off. Bryan helped her lie down on the bed, then went downstairs to find a straight piece of wood and a couple of scarves.
Back in the bedroom, he positioned the wood against her injured leg and wrapped it tightly with the scarves.
He had no idea if splinting techniques for fractures worked on dislocations, but it was better than nothing.
After setting up a makeshift bed on the floor in the adjoining room, Bryan locked the bedroom door, wedged a chair under the handle, and extinguished the lamp.
On the desk, he'd found a notebook with a letter tucked inside—something the previous residents had left for family members. He didn't bother reading it, just used the notebook as a pillow.
The warmth of the blankets enveloped him. After a night of running for his life, exhaustion hit like a freight train.
"God, that feels good."
The moment his eyes closed, unconsciousness claimed him.
...
Creak... creak...
Bryan didn't know how long he'd been asleep when a faint sound jerked him awake.
Midday sunlight streamed through the windows. He rose silently, grabbed the pistol from the desk, and trained it on the door.
That sound was unmistakable—someone on the stairs, trying to be quiet but not quiet enough.
He moved to the bed and gently shook Sarah awake. When her eyes opened, he pressed a finger to his lips and pointed at the door.
The drowsiness vanished from her face. She nodded, understanding.
Silence stretched. Then—
The doorknob turned.
"Is someone in there?"
An old man's voice. He'd noticed the locked door immediately but made no attempt to hide his presence.
Bryan hesitated, then answered. "Who are you?"
"Hm?"
Surprise colored the voice—he clearly hadn't expected a child. But he continued calmly:
"My name is Armand. This is my daughter's house. I won't hurt you. Will you open the door?"
"..."
"Can you set bones?"
"What?"
The question caught the old man off guard, but he quickly understood its significance.
"Yes, actually. I was a combat medic. If it's not too severe, I should be able to help."
That was enough for Bryan. He pulled the chair away, unlocked the door, and stepped back with his gun still raised.
"Come in."
The door swung open slowly. An elderly man with white hair and a kind face stood in the doorway, holding a hunting rifle. His eyes swept the room, taking in the two children.
"Just the two of you? Where are your parents?"
Bryan didn't answer. Years of consuming post-apocalyptic fiction had left him deeply suspicious of strangers. But Sarah spoke up.
"It's just us. My dad and uncle led those monsters away to save us. We got separated."
Then she turned to Bryan. "Put the gun down. This isn't right."
Something in her earnest eyes touched him. He lowered the pistol.
"I'm Bryan. This is Sarah. I'm sorry for... all that."
"No harm done."
Armand waved off the apology and approached Sarah. He studied the makeshift splint, then glanced at Bryan.
"You did this?"
Bryan felt the weight of the old man's gaze and nodded uncertainly.
"Reckless!"
Armand shot him a reproachful look, then quickly unwrapped the scarves.
A night had passed. The swelling had spread noticeably, affecting the entire lower leg.
"Go roll up your blanket and let her lean against it."
Despite his harsh words, Armand seemed relieved the damage wasn't worse. Looking at Sarah, he was reminded of his own granddaughter.
"...Right!"
Bryan hurried to comply, chastened.
"Relax, sweetheart."
Once Sarah was positioned against the bundled blanket, Armand lifted her injured leg and bent the knee to ninety degrees. One hand gripped her calf, pressing downward, while the other hooked behind her knee and pulled upward.
"How does that feel, Sarah?"
"Huh?"
She'd been staring intently at her own leg. The moment she looked up at him—
CRACK!
Armand's hands moved with practiced precision. The joint popped back into place.
Sarah's response came out as a scream instead of words.
But after the initial spike of agony faded, she felt sensation returning to her leg. Control. She could move it again.
Relief flooded through her, followed immediately by guilt. Because of her injury, her father and uncle had risked everything. Because of her, Bryan had struggled through rough terrain with her on his back.
She'd been nothing but a burden.
Looking at her restored leg, Sarah clenched her fists with new resolve. Never again. She would become stronger.
"Thank you, Grandpa Armand."
The old man ruffled her hair, accepting her gratitude with a warm smile.
Then his expression grew serious.
"When you arrived here... did you see anyone else?"
Bryan realized this was the man's daughter's house. He'd come looking for family.
The house had been empty when they'd arrived. He was about to shake his head when he remembered—the letter from last night.
He slapped his forehead and started searching. Finally, under the bed, he found the crumpled paper.
"Here. Maybe this?"