His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in his cheek.
"I left before Clearwater. Before they went full raider." His voice is flat, controlled. "When they crossed that line, I walked away."
"And they just let you go?"
His laugh is bitter, humorless. "No. They're hunting me. Have been for two years." He finally meets my eyes. "So every minute you're with me, you're in danger from more than zombies. Still want to keep asking questions?"
The honesty hits me like cold water. In the apocalypse, truth is rarer than antibiotics. Rarer than hope.
"Why help me then? If you're trying to stay invisible, taking passengers can't be good for survival."
The hardness in his expression wavers, just for a moment, and I glimpse something raw beneath. Pain, old and deep. The kind that never fully heals.
"Because a kid dying from infection is exactly how I lost my daughter." His voice is barely audible. "She was eight. Like I said, I wasn't fast enough." He turns back to the fuel pump, his movements sharp, controlled. "Maybe if I save yours, it'll mean something."
I don’t know what to say. All this time, I've been thinking of him as a monster—a necessary evil I had to accept to save Allie.
But he's not a monster.
He's a father who lost his child. And he's been running from that loss ever since.
Night falls before we find shelter in an abandoned gas station with intact walls and a single entrance we can defend. Stephan clears it room by room while I wait by the door, knife in hand, listening to every shadow.
"Clear," he says finally. "Get some sleep. We've got another six hours tomorrow, and the hospital won't be easy."
But I can't sleep. The adrenaline won't fade, and every time I close my eyes, I see Allie's gray face. Her shallow breathing. The clock running out.
Stephan sits against the far wall, cleaning his machete by the light of a small lantern. The yellow glow catches his tattoos—the Wolves insignia on his neck, but other marks too. A date on his shoulder. A name on his forearm in delicate script.
Sabrina.
"Tell me about her," I say softly.
He goes still. The machete stops moving.
"Nothing to tell."
"Please." I move closer, settling on the floor across from him. "I need to believe this can work. That we can make it in time. That parents can save their children in this world."
The silence stretches so long I think he won't answer. Then, slowly, like the words are being dragged out of him:
"She liked to draw. On everything. Walls, dirt, my arms during club meetings." The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Terrible artist. But she thought she was Picasso. All confidence, that kid. Couldn't argue with it."
"She sounds amazing."
"She was." The almost-smile fades. "Got sick fast. Fever one day, delirious the next, gone by morning. I tore apart three towns looking for medicine. Held her while she died, promising I'd do better." His hand tightens on the machete. "I wasn't fast enough."
I move without thinking, crossing the space between us. He tenses as I settle beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For what you lost. And for judging you before I knew you."
"You had reason. The Wolves became exactly what you thought they were."
"But you're not them."
He turns to look at me, and something passes between us—recognition of a shared wound. We're both running from loss. Both racing toward the impossible hope of doing it differently this time.
I kiss him.
