It happened after the bite. Not infection. Something else. The bullet tore through his throat—clean, fast, merciful. But it took his voice. And left me alone with his silence. Drew had always been the loud one. The guy who told jokes too loudly, laughed in danger, sang stupid songs while we scavenged. When the world burned, his voice was my anchor. Then one day, we walked into a trap. A stray bullet meant for a crawler ricocheted off a rusted beam. I saw it before he did. Blood poured from his neck as he dropped to his knees. Not from the infection. But from the silence that followed. I stitched him up with trembling fingers and half a medkit. We stopped the bleeding. But the damage was done. Just breath, pain, and glances. At first, I thought we'd drift apart. But Drew had other plans. He found ways to speak without sound. He tapped rhythms on my arm. Pointed at stars when we couldn't sleep. And those blue eyes—God, they screamed louder than any voice. We grew better at it. He touched his heart, then mine. That meant: Still here. Still us. He squeezed my hand twice for I love you. Three times for Don't give up. One time, during a crawler ambush, he held my face in his shaking hands and mouthed a word. I didn't need to hear it. I knew it was Always. The way he used to hum when sharpening his machete. Now he just breathed. And sometimes whimpered in sleep. But he was still Drew. And somehow, that was enough. Then came the bunker. A man with a radio. A promise of safety. But only one could enter. "Only one seat," the man said. "No exceptions." He looked at Drew's scarred throat and shook his head. Drew just stood there. Calm. Silent. He pressed the last flare into my hand. Wrote one word on my wrist with a charcoal nub: So we walked away from salvation. Into the dark. Into the cold. Now, every night, I read to him from an old, torn book. I don't know if he hears the words or just the memory of sound. Because when he couldn't speak…