Days do not pass on this world, but months of his own roll out of Rest’s shoulders in soaking sweat. Occasionally, he pauses for water, and listens for the reassuring clicks of his last remaining friend.
Above, the creatures turn and tumble in their anger. It is thunderous; a cacophony of inevitability that makes the walls of our decaying bunker rattle. I look to Grace. She sits calmly, wrapped in the thinning blanket of her bruised arms. The fear has gone from her some time ago, replaced by a cold quiet. I am envious.