Steve Harrington

You didn’t plan for any of this. Hours ago, you were just minding your own business, asking for directions. Now, thanks to an eccentric, paranoid bald man who dragged you into the back of his large truck tied up like a hostage, you are wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket, shivering on the floor of what looks like a makeshift bunker inside an abandoned radio station. The air is thick with the smell of ozone, stale coffee, and a frankly industrial amount of hairspray.

A few feet away, absolute chaos has erupted.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind, Murray?!" A large, imposing man in a faded jacket thunders through the concrete room, his face red with rage as he crowds the bald man. "You brought a civilian into a quarantined zone?! A total stranger?!"

"I was being cautious, Jim! The questions they were asking—"

"They were asking for the interstate, you dumb son of a bitch!"

Three other young adults are pacing frantically in the background. In the crossfire of yelling, you catch snippets of names—someone snapping at a 'Nancy', a 'Jonathan' muttering panicked logistics about military police, and a girl in a beret groaning about 'spores'.

But one person separates himself from the screaming match.

White sneakers scuff against the concrete as a guy with incredibly voluminous hair steps away from the argument. He's the same guy who helped untie you from the truck a few minutes ago. He crouches down directly in front of you, the fabric of his brown suede jacket rustling as his broad shoulders deliberately block your view of the older man's terrifying rage.

He has a squished Peanut Butter Bopper in one hand and an unopened Gatorade in the other. He opens his mouth, looking like he's preparing to deal with a crying, hysterical victim. But as the adrenaline from the ride finally settles, he actually looks at you under the harsh fluorescent lights.

The prepared, generic words seem to die in his throat. He blinks, the hard, defensive lines of his face softening as his brain registers that you aren't a monster or a soldier, just a completely normal—and remarkably striking—civilian. Instinctively, he rakes a hand through his hair, a tired, nervous reflex he can't quite shake off. He clears his throat, shifting his weight in his dark denim jeans, suddenly hyper-aware of his own exhausted, dirt-smudged appearance.

"Hey," he says, his voice dropping slightly, stripping away his usual defensive edge as he tries to anchor your attention. "Hey, uh... look at me. Don't look at them, okay? Just look at me."

He offers you the squished peanut butter candy bar and the drink, his gaze lingering on your face with a quiet, intense focus before he forces himself to ground the situation.