There isn't much time to sit around reminiscing these days. If you're not defending yourself against attackers, you're making sure that others can't defend themselves against you, so you can steal their shit and run. It's all about survival. It's always been about survival, ever since the cordyceps fungus decided to give the planet a big, hefty middle finger.

And yet here I sit, a 36-year-old woman yanked violently from her teens by the apocalypse, peering out over the pitiful, shantytown corpse of a city that used to be Boston. And beside me sits one of the most ruthless killers I have ever known and ever will know. He can kill a man in an array of brutish fashions, can intimidate the bulkiest of survivors with little more than the grizzly atmosphere that hangs about him when he narrows his eyes and white-knuckles his pistol.

So it's no wonder that I surprise myself when out of my lips rushes a soft, "Do you want to talk about our childhoods again?"

Joel turns his attention from the window - his viewport into the windy, weeping night - and looks at me. His expression is unreadable, save for a raised eyebrow, and I wonder if I've crossed a line; talking about the past isn't exactly one of his favorite pastimes. Rarely ever do I get a peep out of him on the subject of life before the Outbreak, and when he does comment on it, it's typically a dismissive grunt or a small, insignificant detail about his brother or his hometown. However, there was one instance in which I did manage to get quite a few stories out of him about his teen years. He'd mentioned high school football and camping with his family...

It's been around ten uncomfortable seconds, and he still hasn't said anything, so I turn back to face the window and sigh, giving an apologetic, "My bad."

I should have known better than to bring up the past, especially with the anniversary of his daughter's death being only weeks away. Twenty years ago, on the night he and his family were forced from their home by lack of options, Joel lost his daughter to a soldier's bullet. He only ever mentioned it once, and I can still recall that conversation clearly. He made a huge fuss over the topic and ran his mouth a mile a minute so he could spit the words out, likely trying to avoid their poisonous taste. But from what he said I was able to gather that he was fleeing Austin with his young daughter in his arms, and a soldier - acting on orders - gunned them down at the city's outskirts. His brother Tommy came and shot the asshole dead. Joel survived. His daughter did not.

In the dark room, I sense movement out of the corner of my eye, and I turn to see Joel leaning back in his lawn chair, stretching his arms and resting them behind his head as he kicks his legs up on the window sill. He shifts his gaze over to me, an amateur smile hiding amongst his otherwise dilapidated survivor's face, and shrugs. "You go first."

I can't help but smirk, thinking it's been forever since we've had a good, frivolous talk. "Okay, where should I start?"

"Anywhere," he offers in his deep, Texan tone.

Too vague. I narrow my eyes at him playfully.

"Um, nine years old."

I search my metaphorical filing cabinet for memories, and when I've found a good one, I pull out the manilla folder and open it up: "When I was nine, my Aunt Claire moved to the US from Paris so she could be closer to my mom. She babysat my sister and me all the time, and she would take us to get ice cream whenever we saw her. She spoiled us," I admit, smiling. "Melissa's favorite was vanilla, and mine was chocolate. With lots of M&Ms. ...I was the cool one."

Joel laughs, or at least gives a small chuckle, which has become his typical laugh for those fleeting times in which he does express amusement.
"Aunt Claire," he echoes. "I assume that's where your middle name comes from?"

"You assume correctly, Joel Ethan," I confirm, my smirk widening as he rolls his eyes at the sound of his own middle name.

"You said your aunt came to America from Paris, 'sat right?"

"Yes, sir," I reply, leaning forward in my chair to rest my elbows on my knees. "Why do you ask?"

He mirrors my actions, bringing himself forward, and chuckles again. "I don't s'pose she taught you any French?"

I peer into his eyes, eyebrows raised, and laugh inwardly at how he shifts ever so slightly, uncomfortable with the tension. He seems to do this whenever he knows I'm harboring a little secret, and I'll never tell him, but I get a huge kick out of watching him try - and fail - to cover up the fact that my challenging gaze puts him on the spot. I guess there's some part of me that enjoys being the Batman to his Robin. Sure, we've both earned our reputation as a badass team of smugglers, but I'm the bitch in charge, and Joel knows it damn well.

"Oui, elle l'a fait. Un peu," I state simply. I watch him unravel at my suddenly adopted French accent, and it's all I can do to keep myself from laughing in his face. But hell, if some monster of a woman with a scowl as mean as mine came along and spoke to me in a pretty, French tongue, I'd be taken aback too. I tease him, "What? Got something against the French?"

He's quick to regain his composure, however, and hits my forearm playfully as he quips back, "Just this one."

"Easy there, killer," I retort, making a big show of rubbing my "wounded" arm. "Break my bones and who's going to save your ass from Infected?"

"Well, certainly not me, I reckon," he counters with no small amount of wit, carrying out our banter.

I say nothing, content with just smiling with the man sitting next to me. I glance at the small end table we've placed between our chairs; we've furnished it with two glasses of Scotch. I pay special attention to my glass and find it's begging me to greet it with my lips. I'm more than happy to oblige, and I take a slow sip, making it last, before I ask, "What about you? What was nine-year-old Joel like?"

He opens his mouth slightly, pausing briefly before sighing, "Nine-year-old Joel, huh?" He glances up at the ceiling as he lets his fingers play across his peppery beard, a telltale sign that he's trying to remember something, and after a moment nods and continues, "Nine-year-old Joel was really into baseball cards and four-wheeling."

I raise my eyebrows in amusement and nod, barely concealing a grin as I picture this new image in my mind's eye. "Oh. Gotcha'." I take another gulp of Scotch. "So...your parents let you go four-wheeling at nine years old?"

He gives another one of his iconic Joel chuckles as he takes a drink from his own glass. "No way in hell they would." He must see in my eyes that I'm hoping he'll explain further, and so he does, "My cousins were in high school at the time, and they lived on this big farm in Kansas. We'd visit them for a few weeks every summer, and since there was a barn placed conveniently between the living room window and the field, they taught me how to ride a four-wheeler without any of those pesky adults finding out. ...For a while."

I can't help but to laugh outright. "Oh, and how did mama and papa like the idea of Joel riding a big, bad four-wheeler?"

"They bought me one for Christmas when I was eleven."

"No shit!" I blurt, laughing even harder, almost spilling my drink. "And I thought I was spoiled! How the hell did that happen?"

He takes another sip and sets his glass down; the expected crispness of the sound of the glass landing on the wood is dull and muted against the wind that batters the building and the army of raindrops that launches against the windows. Joel sits up in his chair, one hand on his beard, and eases his thin lips into a small smile.

"At first," he begins, "they were against the whole thing. They were mad at my cousins for ever riding them in front of me, especially for teaching me how to ride one. And after that they kept quiet about the topic, at least 'round me. But two years later, my mom led me an' Tommy out to the garage on Christmas morning, after we'd opened all of our other presents. And you can imagine how stoked we were when we saw the fucker parked in there, big, red bow on it and everything. And later that morning, my dad musta' been helping Tommy figure out one of his toys, and my mom pulls me aside, and she says, 'Joel, I just want you to know that your dad and I argued for months over whether or not to get you that four-wheeler. You need to know that even if it's a toy, it is dangerous. I don't want you ridin' it by yourself. I don't want you teachin' your brother how to ride it unless your dad or I are out there with you.'

Naturally, as soon as I could, I took Tommy out into the empty lot behind our house and taught him how to ride it. I remember feeling like I'd accomplished something, like I was a rebel. It took me a few years to realize that my mom knew damn well that I'd disobey her; she's one of the smartest people I've ever known. She didn't say those things because she didn't want me to ride it by myself or to teach Tommy how to ride it. She said it because she wanted me to think about the rule I was breaking as I was breaking it. She wanted me to be self-aware; moreover, she wanted me to be careful. It was her sneaky way of protecting her kids, even though she knew she couldn't be by our side forever. ...She just wanted us to be able to have fun, despite the danger." Joel sighs, his exhale a long echo of the words he had plucked from his conscience.

I gaze wistfully at the raindrops racing down the window before me. Some merge and form a bigger, stronger drop. Some remain derelict, falling at their own, tedious pace, nowhere near as fast as the larger droplets but still rolling along. Either way, they all cascade toward the bottom, pooling onto the sill and eventually dripping over its edge, plummeting several stories to the ground below. It's inevitable.

I find myself thinking that this is the most I've ever heard Joel say without any interruptions, and I acquire this abrupt idea that I should kiss him, but I chase the thought away as swiftly as it arrives.

Instead, I turn to the man, the father-turned-survivor, and I take him in with my eyes alone, wondering if he's doing the same with me but not daring to ask.

"Joel?"

He doesn't break our eye contact. "Hm?"

I feel myself about to ask more about his childhood, to get our minds off the unreasonably gloomy mood his story has brought about. But I can't find it in myself to do so, so I alter my words before they can leave my mouth, and I ask, reluctantly, "When's our next deal going down? With Robert, I mean."

I think I see disappointment in his eyes, but I dismiss it as nothing more than a trick of distant lightning as it plays across the room, fusing into his irises for a fraction of a second before it's gone again. I am made aware of the fact that he'd been angled towards me as he shifts himself in his chair and returns his gaze to the dead city beyond the window. Now we've come full circle.

"In a few weeks," he mutters, no longer projecting his voice with the same fervor as he had done for his story, for our conversation.

It's been three weeks since Ellie and I finally made it back to Tommy's little settlement in Wyoming. My baby brother had been as welcoming as he'd said he'd be back when we left for Colorado to find the Fireflies - wormy bastards their lot turned out to be.

His men were quick to find us a house - edge of town - complete with an old, beat-up couch with a pull-out bed. What a steal. It's a tiny shack of a thing, with one small kitchen, one smaller bathroom, and two tiny rooms to spare, but I can't help feeling it's the best home I've ever been the proud owner of. Of course it's also the shittiest dump I've ever lived in, but it's got walls and a roof and electricity, and it's close to Tommy and Ellie, so if you ask me, it's golden.

In fact, after years of having no real place to call home, it's platinum.

If I'm being completely honest, one of my favorite things about my new home is the fact that I can venture up to the roof on clear nights and stargaze. Tonight in particular has proven to be an excellent night for such an activity, and I'd be damned if I wasn't taking full advantage of it. I relax on the rooftop, tucking my arms behind my head, and allow my eyes to wander. It's just me, millions of the universe's brightest objects, and-

"Joel," a familiar voice whispers from the ladder propped against the side of the house.

I sigh. Of course Ellie would be the only child in the whole town to be awake at two in the morning. I prop myself up with one arm, turning around slightly to look at the ladder. All I can see of the little lady is her head peeking up over the edge of the roof.

I rub my temples with my free hand as I yawn. "Ellie, what happened to sleepin'?"

Ellie sees this as an invitation, and she climbs the rest of the way up the ladder, pulling herself up onto the rooftop and plopping down right next to me. "Well, you're awake, so I figure: why can't I be?" she says matter-of-factly, sitting Indian-style. She points up at the stars, continuing, "Looks like the sky isn't asleep either."

I return my own gaze to the night sky, appreciating all the stars, planets, moons, and other things I can and cannot see. I see a shooting star flash across the sky, and maybe it's just a cheesier side of me, but the stars seem to shine a tad bit brighter in response. Ellie's right; the sky is indeed awake.

For some time, we sit up there, perched languidly upon a rooftop, bathed in the moon's milky light. All is silent except for the chatter of the bugs all around us and the gentle hum of the town as electricity courses through its infrastructure. Nothing could make this moment any better.

"Joel, what were you like as a kid?"

Well, almost nothing.

I find myself unable to say anything, shocked and strangely happy. I stare pointedly at the tips of my boots, suddenly lost in thoughts of Tess and the conversations we used to have late at night, when we were brain-dead and drunk enough to get sentimental. Oh man, do I miss those nights.

But then again, do I really? Did I ever truly open up to Tess, or were we just constantly making small talk? It's definitely something to think about. My relationship with Tess was complex; that much is certain. But whether or not it was positive or negative is debatable.

"Um, hello?"

Ellie's voice, sweet yet daring, derails my train of thought. I look at her, noticing how her green eyes reflect more moonlight than Tess' bitter gaze ever could. "Sorry. I was listening."

"Great! So...are you going to tell me what you were like as a kid, or are you just going to keep sitting there like a big lump on a log?"

I chuckle, and as Ellie scoots closer to me, snuggling into my side, I wrap a protective arm around her.

"All right, well..." I begin, trying to think of a childhood story to tell Ellie. When I've got a good one, I continue, "Did I ever tell you about when I got lost in New Orleans?"

Ellie's shoulders shake as she laughs. "I can't see you being lost. How the hell did that happen?"

I launch into a tale about how, when I was twelve, I went to Louisiana on a vacation with my family. Every now and again Ellie asks a question about the pre-Outbreak world or makes a sassy remark about how different I seemed to be as a kid.

Maybe Tess didn't have it in her to be compassionate and understanding, to truly listen to what I had to say with an intent to care. Maybe, to her, our little talks were just another method of killing time, no strings attached, no sentimentality. And that's okay by me; I don't feel any anger towards her for being a solid stone of a woman, both on the job and off. She was who she was. While she couldn't lend me an ear or offer any warm advice, she was adept at smuggling, skilled beyond any level I had ever had the chance to reach. In the time it took me to kill a man, she could take down three. She was efficient, always knowing the most exact way to get from A to B, snag what she needed, and hurry back to A. Perhaps most importantly, she was more familiar with the concept of sacrifice than anyone I'd ever known. She went out of her way to make herself useful to me until the last second. She knew what it took to survive, what it took to help others survive.

Maybe, in a bizarre way, that was how Tess showed she cared.

But it couldn't touch the rainbow of ways in which Ellie showed she cared. Ellie isn't anywhere near being the lioness of a woman Tess was.

"Okay, so how pissed were your parents when they finally found you?"

Her blood isn't constantly boiling.

"Pretty damn pissed."

Her eyes don't have the same unnerving glint as a winking knife.

"...Really? 'Pretty damn pissed.' That's all you have for me? C'mon, I want details! Did they totally chew you out and ground you for seven months?"

She's not an arrow, poised and ready to be fired.

"Okay, well they yelled at me in public. People stared, and I was embarrassed. Tommy made fun of me the rest of the day, because he was a no-good little shit. Still is, y'ask me."

She isn't made of stone.

"What, like you aren't a little shit? Joel, you dumped a bucket of water on me the other day to wake me up."

She isn't Tess.

"Fine, you're right. I'm a little shit."

And for that I am grateful.

For a while, we sit in silence. A stray breeze wisps across the rooftop, carrying with it the scent of lavender and loamy earth. I glance down and see Ellie's small face, fresh and pallid in the moon's glow, and her freckles remind me of stars. Her eyes scan the night sky with crisp curiosity. Soon, her eyelids begin to droop, and she yawns.

"Joel?"

I try not to smile as she attempts to rub the drowsiness from her eyes, ultimately failing as another yawn escapes her.

"Hm?"

She blinks as her eyes water from sleepiness. "Can we hit the hay for the night?"

I smile. "Sure, kiddo."

We both stretch our creaky limbs as we stand, and Ellie is the first to head down the ladder, eager to crawl into bed. As I follow her down the rungs, I think about the activities we have waiting for us when we wake up in a few hours. Swimming lessons. I'd promised Ellie I'd teach her how to swim, and tomorrow - or I guess later today, seeing as it's past midnight - is day one.

The world is a nightmare. There are beasts and behemoths that exist for no other reason than to sink their fungal faces into people's necks and tear them limb from limb. Even worse, there are people who've never been sick beyond the having the flu, and personally, I find them to be far more terrifying than any Clicker or Bloater could ever be. Despite having full control of their motor skills, they slaughter without mercy. I know this from experience, seeing as I used to be one of them. It's simple: they kill to survive. But not me. Not anymore, at least.

Nowadays I kill to live.