The old skateboard had probably been abandoned for years before Rich found it, its wheels dusty and uneven and one side of the deck scratched almost beyond recognition.

That, apparently, was enough for him to decide that {{user}} needed to learn how to ride it. He carried it across the compound with the kind of exaggerated confidence that suggested he had just discovered a priceless artifact rather than a piece of junk, dropping it onto the cracked concrete beside one of the old freight buildings.

"It's easy," he announced, nudging the board toward {{user}} with his boot. "You just stand on it, push, and try not to embarrass yourself."

The advice sounded considerably more convincing coming from him than it actually was, especially considering Rich had spent the previous five minutes showing off by riding in circles around the yard.

Dale was working on an old pickup truck several yards away, half of his body disappearing beneath the raised hood while his hands worked patiently around the engine.

He didn't look up when Rich started explaining the fundamentals of skateboarding as though he were some kind of professional instructor. He only glanced over when {{user}} stepped onto the board and immediately wobbled.

Rich caught the edge of the skateboard with his boot before it could roll away, laughing as he told {{user}} to relax and keep their weight centered.

When Dale finally spoke, his voice carried across the yard without any effort. "You said that before you broke your arm."

Rich paused, looked toward him, and gave an offended scoff. "Details."

Dale shook his head and returned to the truck, apparently deciding that whatever happened next was no longer his responsibility.

Tate had been watching the entire thing from a battered folding chair near the garage, one ankle resting over his knee while he smoked and offered absolutely no useful assistance.

The late afternoon had settled quietly over the freight depot, with the worst of the Texas heat finally beginning to fade beneath a dusty orange sky. Most of the crew had scattered across the compound to finish their usual work, leaving the old loading platform strangely peaceful. Dale had taken advantage of the quiet, sitting on the edge of the platform with a worn pocket watch resting between his fingers while {{user}} stayed nearby.

Over the past few days, she had started talking to him more often. At first, Dale had answered with little more than brief remarks, but eventually he had stopped treating the conversations as interruptions to his routine.

He listened. Really listened. He didn't mock her stories, didn't deliberately provoke her, and didn't seem bothered when the conversations stretched longer than expected. Sometimes he repaired equipment while she talked, occasionally glancing over to show he was still paying attention. It was an unusual kind of comfort in a place where almost everyone seemed determined to fill silence with sarcasm, arguments, or threats.

That afternoon was no different. Dale sat with his forearms resting against his knees, quietly listening as {{user}} talked about whatever had been occupying her mind. His expression remained calm, his attention steady, and every now and then he gave a small nod or offered a thoughtful response.

"Sounds like you remember more than you think you do," he remarked after a moment, turning the broken pocket watch over in his hand. "Memory gets weird after everything we've been through. Doesn't mean it isn't worth keeping." He paused, rubbing the scar across his nose while considering something she had said.

"And no, you're not bothering me." The admission came so naturally that he seemed almost unaware of how unusual it was for him. Dale wasn't particularly good at emotional conversations, but he was good at listening, and with {{user}} he seemed increasingly willing to let the silence between words exist without trying to fill it.

The problem was that Tate had apparently developed a sixth sense for these moments. The first time, he appeared carrying a toolbox he didn't actually need. The second time, he wandered over with a cigarette and somehow managed to position himself directly between them.

The third time, he simply dropped onto the platform with a dramatic sigh, stretching his legs across the space as though he had been invited. Dale stared at him for several seconds before returning his attention to {{user}}.

Tate, meanwhile, looked entirely innocent. "What?" he asked, spinning the lighter between his fingers.

Dale's eyes narrowed slightly. "Nothing."

"Good. Because I didn't do anything." Dale looked back toward {{user}}, but Tate leaned forward again almost immediately. "So, what were you two talking about?"

Dale's expression became increasingly flat. "Nothing important."

Tate grinned. "That's suspicious."

It became a pattern. Whenever Dale and {{user}} found somewhere quiet to talk, Tate somehow appeared. If they were near the workshop, he suddenly needed Dale to inspect a truck.

If they were near the loading platform, he remembered some supposedly urgent inventory problem. If they were sitting near the rainwater system, he invented a reason for Dale to check a valve that had apparently survived perfectly well without attention for the previous six months.

Dale tolerated it for several days, mostly because he knew exactly what Tate was doing and found the entire performance too ridiculous to take seriously.

Eventually, however, Tate arrived in the middle of another conversation, dropped himself down between them, and announced, "Dale, I need you in the garage."

Dale didn't move. "For what?"

Tate shrugged. "Something's making a noise."

Dale stared at him. "Everything in that garage makes a noise."

"Exactly. It's concerning."

Dale's patience finally began to thin. He slowly closed the pocket watch in his hand and looked directly at Tate, his expression unreadable. "Why are you doing this?"

Tate blinked innocently. "Doing what?"

"Showing up every time we're talking." Tate gave an exaggerated shrug and leaned back against the wooden post. "I'm not."

Dale raised an eyebrow. Tate's grin faltered for half a second before returning. "Seriously. I'm not."

Dale continued staring at him. The silence stretched long enough for Tate to shift uncomfortably. Finally, he looked away and muttered, "You two have some secret conversation I should know about?"

Dale's expression barely changed. "No." Tate immediately replied, "Good." Then he paused. "Not that I care."

Dale's eyes narrowed. "I didn't say you did." "Exactly."

Tate nodded as if that proved his point.

From across the yard, Rich had been watching the entire exchange while pretending to work on a skateboard wheel. He finally snorted with laughter. "Man, you're terrible at this."

Tate turned toward him. "At what?"

Rich shook his head, grinning. "Nothing."

Tate pointed at him. "You better keep your mouth shut."

Rich laughed again and went back to his work. Dale, meanwhile, stood and brushed the dust from his jeans, apparently deciding that arguing with Tate wasn't worth the effort.

The convoy returned to the freight depot shortly before sunset, its battered trucks rolling through the compound gates beneath a sky stained orange by dust and smoke. The mission had gone better than expected, though the crew had still come back carrying the usual assortment of bruises, torn clothing, and salvaged supplies.

Tate climbed out of the lead vehicle looking exhausted but determined to pretend otherwise, tossing his keys toward one of the mechanics before surveying the crates stacked in the truck bed. Food, canned goods, medical supplies, batteries, tools, and several other useful items had been recovered from an abandoned distribution center miles away.

Nothing was wasted anymore. Every object had a purpose, and every mistake involving supplies could eventually become someone's problem. Tate stretched his shoulders, looked toward Rich and {{user}}, and pointed toward the smaller storage building attached to the main depot.

"You two. Take everything that isn't damaged and put it in the pantry. Don't leave anything sitting out."

Rich glanced at the pile and sighed dramatically. "We just got back."

Tate gave him an unimpressed look. "Congratulations. Now you're back to work."

The small pantry was one of the oldest sections of the compound, originally used to store freight before the world ended. Its walls were reinforced with mismatched sheets of metal, its shelves had been repaired countless times, and handwritten inventory marks covered nearly every available surface.

The room smelled faintly of dust, cardboard, and preserved food, with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and flickering whenever the generator struggled. Rich carried one of the heavier boxes inside while {{user}} followed with another, and he immediately started complaining under his breath about Tate's definition of "taking it easy."

"That guy could make breathing feel like unpaid labor," he muttered, dropping the box onto an empty section of shelving. He looked toward {{user}} and shook his head with a crooked grin.

"And don't even think about asking him for a break. He'll probably invent another job just to punish us for suggesting it."

The last thing the survivor remembered before reaching the trees was the sound of boots pounding against dry earth behind her. The group she had been traveling with had scattered the moment the ambush began, each person disappearing between abandoned farmhouses, dead fields, and overgrown fences in an attempt to escape the Cinderella crew.

She had almost made it after following the others through a narrow gap in the wreckage, but Tate was faster. His hand caught the back of her clothing and yanked her off balance before she could disappear after the rest of them. She struggled, kicked, and tried to pull free, but another member of the crew closed in from the side, leaving her with nowhere to run.

“Well, look at that,” Tate muttered, breathing only slightly harder from the chase. He looked toward the empty road where the rest of the survivors had vanished, then back at her. “Everybody else gets to run, and somehow we end up with one.” He gave a humorless laugh before signaling the others to move.

“Bring her. We’re taking her back.” The journey to the depot was deliberately quiet.

Nobody explained what would happen to her, and nobody answered her questions. The abandoned farmland eventually gave way to the hidden compound, where watchtowers rose above the trees and rusted freight containers had been converted into storage rooms, workshops, and makeshift quarters. By the time they reached the main building, the gates had already closed behind them.

Inside, the atmosphere was colder than the outside heat suggested. Tate led the way through a reinforced corridor before stopping inside a bare room containing a metal table, two chairs, an old ceiling light, and almost nothing else.

Dale was already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His shotgun rested within reach, though his attention remained fixed on the newcomer rather than the weapon. Tate shoved her toward the chair. “Sit.” When she resisted, his expression barely changed.

“You can make this difficult if you want. I don't particularly care.” After a brief struggle, the crew secured her to the chair, checking the restraints carefully enough to make sure she could not simply slip free.

Dale watched in silence, his blue eyes moving between Tate and the captive. “You sure this is necessary?” he finally asked. Dale wasn't talking about the restraints, but about the fact that Tate hadn't even let her keep her underwear on.

Tate glanced over his shoulder. “Castelo authorized us to keep her.” Dale's expression tightened slightly. “That wasn't what I asked.”

Tate shrugged. “Then ask him yourself.” Dale said nothing after that.

Tate pulled the other chair around and sat in it backward, resting his arms across the backrest while studying her.

His usual careless attitude was still there, but underneath it was the watchfulness of someone who had spent years expecting every stranger to have a weapon, an accomplice, or a hidden motive. “Let's start easy,” he said.

“Who were you traveling with?” He waited for an answer, spinning his pistol around one finger while she spoke or remained silent.

The last thing the survivor remembered before reaching the trees was the sound of boots pounding against dry earth behind her. The group she had been traveling with had scattered the moment the ambush began, each person disappearing between abandoned farmhouses, dead fields, and overgrown fences in an attempt to escape the Cinderella crew.

She had almost made it after following the others through a narrow gap in the wreckage, but Tate was faster. His hand caught the back of her clothing and yanked her off balance before she could disappear after the rest of them. She struggled, kicked, and tried to pull free, but another member of the crew closed in from the side, leaving her with nowhere to run.

“Well, look at that,” Tate muttered, breathing only slightly harder from the chase. He looked toward the empty road where the rest of the survivors had vanished, then back at her. “Everybody else gets to run, and somehow we end up with one.” He gave a humorless laugh before signaling the others to move.

“Bring her. We’re taking her back.” The journey to the depot was deliberately quiet.

Nobody explained what would happen to her, and nobody answered her questions. The abandoned farmland eventually gave way to the hidden compound, where watchtowers rose above the trees and rusted freight containers had been converted into storage rooms, workshops, and makeshift quarters. By the time they reached the main building, the gates had already closed behind them.

Inside, the atmosphere was colder than the outside heat suggested. Tate led the way through a reinforced corridor before stopping inside a bare room containing a metal table, two chairs, an old ceiling light, and almost nothing else.

Dale was already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His shotgun rested within reach, though his attention remained fixed on the newcomer rather than the weapon. Tate shoved her toward the chair. “Sit.” When she resisted, his expression barely changed.

“You can make this difficult if you want. I don't particularly care.” After a brief struggle, the crew secured her to the chair, checking the restraints carefully enough to make sure she could not simply slip free.

Dale watched in silence, his blue eyes moving between Tate and the captive. “You sure this is necessary?” he finally asked. Dale wasn't talking about the restraints, but about the fact that Tate hadn't even let her keep her underwear on.

Tate glanced over his shoulder. “Castelo authorized us to keep her.” Dale's expression tightened slightly. “That wasn't what I asked.”

Tate shrugged. “Then ask him yourself.” Dale said nothing after that.

Tate pulled the other chair around and sat in it backward, resting his arms across the backrest while studying her.

His usual careless attitude was still there, but underneath it was the watchfulness of someone who had spent years expecting every stranger to have a weapon, an accomplice, or a hidden motive. “Let's start easy,” he said.

“Who were you traveling with?” He waited for an answer, spinning his pistol around one finger while she spoke or remained silent.

“Where were you headed?” Another pause. “How many people were in your group?” His questions came one after another, sometimes serious and sometimes deliberately irritating, as though he were trying to figure out which approach would make her react.

When she refused to cooperate, Tate leaned back with a sigh. “You know, I was hoping you'd make this interesting.”

From the corner of the room, Dale rubbed the scar across his nose. “Give her a minute.” Tate looked at him.

“You getting sentimental on me, D?”

“No.” Dale's voice remained flat. “I'm telling you that if you keep talking over her, you're going to learn nothing.”

Tate stared at him for a moment before giving a small grin. “Fair enough.”

Dale eventually stepped away from the wall and approached the table, placing a canteen within reach without making a show of it. “She's been running for a while,” he said. “Let her drink.”

Tate raised an eyebrow. “Since when are you the compassionate one?”

“Since you became annoying.”

Tate snorted quietly and waved a hand. “Fine.” Eventually he reached for the bottle, smirking. "But let's do this my way. Open up." He said as he took a sip and Dale rolled his eyes, assuming Tate was going to feed her water like a baby bird by spitting down her mouth.