**Note**

I am currently in search of a beta for this fic. I am worried that in my haste to update frequently, I will lose parts of my usual editing process. If anyone is interested, please please please send me a message either on here or at .com

I hope you enjoy this chapter! ^_^

**End Note**

John rolled as he hit the ground with a force strong enough to knock the wind from his lungs and crack one of his ribs. He came to a stop on his back, screaming through gritted teeth as a sharp, hot pain seared through his chest and shoulders. He squinted as he wheezed. He knew he had to get his breathing under control if he wanted to be able to walk away, but every breath was a stab in his side.

Everything was hot, too hot. It was all he could feel. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the cloud of fire roaring not twenty yards away, but even through his eyelids he could see the glowing flames. The house was burning quickly in the dry, unmoving air.

By the time he could manage to take a shaky breath without imagining a knife sticking out of his lungs, the house was a pile of ash and glowing embers. A few pieces of furniture remained unconsumed by the flames, toppled over in the rubble; half of a sofa, a twisted lamp melded to a bedframe, a porcelain bathtub with claw feet turned upside-down and covered with a thick layer of black ash.

It was entirely John's fault the house had caught fire. He was usually so careful when he found a new place to stay, and this one was like a presidential suite compared to the last place he had been. Not many houses were still standing; most had been taken apart by the regime for governmental use, others had been shredded by wanderers scavenging or looking for firewood. This one, though, had been tucked away on a hill, overgrown by trees and shrubbery. Even John, with his keen eyes, had almost missed it.

It had been just after dawn when he found the house. He had been on the move for two days without resting for more than an hour of sleep here or there. He was exhausted. Finally, when he could hardly keep his eyes open, he had climbed a tree to bunk out for a few hours and build up his strength. The tree was old but sturdy, so he'd climbed as high as he felt was safe. As he'd peered out from the foliage, he had just been able to see the peak of the sliding slate roof.

John was skeptical of anything that resembled the old civilization, so he had watched the house until the sun had risen over his head and begun its journey down the other side of the sky. When he was certain no one else was using the house, he had climbed down and walked carefully to the front door. It was stuck tight with grime and overgrown weeds, but with work he had managed to pry it open.

The house was beautiful. John had thought that the people who had lived there before the war must have been rich. The dining room was hardwood maple, the kitchen lined with robin's-egg-blue tile and granite counters, a stainless steel refrigerator that had been out of use for at least a decade sitting in a sunken corner. Even in the bathroom the owners had allowed their luxury to bloom, with now-grimy paintings of oceans and lighthouses in gilded frames and a pristinely white bathtub—John had never seen claws on a tub before, but it felt like a luxurious thing to have.

In the kitchen, there was a gas stove. John hadn't been able to believe his luck when he had opened it and found it nearly half full of fuel. With an old pot he found in one of the cupboards and a creek that snaked through the thick woods that surrounded the house, he had been able to fill the bathtub with boiled water. When he had finally sunk his body into it, he had wanted to cry. The water seared his skin bright red in moments, but it had been worth it for his first hot bath since he was a child.

When his skin had become so wrinkled that he could no longer feel his fingertips, he had pulled himself from the tub, not even bothering to dress again, and cooked the leftover fire-seared rabbit meat from the week before that he had wrapped in leaves and stored in his bag. Combined with a handful of herbs he found growing in what must have been an old garden, the rabbit had tasted like a meal fit for a king. He had even found a dusty but unopened can of mushrooms in the cupboard; he could tell he hadn't been the first to stumble on the house, but whoever had been there before him hadn't taken everything.

John had eaten his meal, and for the first time in almost five years, his stomach had been satisfied.

The beds upstairs were musty and grimy, but John had peeled back the thick comforters and found pristinely white sheets. His last thought before nodding off was that he wanted to live in that house until he died.

He had awakened hours later with sweat plastering the blankets to his body. A wall of fire ate at the wall on the opposite side of the room. "Well," he had thought to himself, "I always knew I was going to Hell."

He had sprinted down the stairs, grabbing his bag and shoving his legs through his pant legs as he ran. The fire had consumed the wall and ceiling on one side of the house already. Unfortunately for John, it had been the side with the door. The windows in the other rooms were boarded up tightly; no amount of kicking and shoulder-slamming would crack them. Without thinking, he had run back up the stairs.

He lay now on the warm dirt outside, curling his fingers into his hands, digging his nails in hard enough to break the skin of his palms. He mentally punched himself. His instincts had told him to run away from the fire, but he had led himself into a greater danger—getting trapped in the upper rooms of the house. It had almost killed him. He couldn't afford those kinds of mistakes.

John raised his arm tenderly, wincing as pain shot again through him. Slow, shallow breaths seemed to stave off the pain. He got to his feet, biting his lip as he stood. He straightened his back, crying out as he immediately crumpled into himself. His head pounded. "Okay," he thought, "so I can't stand up straight. Maybe if I just…"

He straightened his spine again, slowly this time, until he started to feel a twinging in his chest. He was still hunched, but at least he was capable of walking. His knapsack still hung around his shoulders from before his jump, but he kew he had probably had crushed everything inside when he had fallen. At least the rabbit meat would still be—

He stopped in his tracks. The rabbit meat. He had left it on the stove.

"Shit!" he yelled loudly, his hand flying to his side as it throbbed. Now John had nowhere to stay and nothing to eat, and night was falling.

He walked through the woods for a while, following the creek as it widened into a shallow river. When he realized he couldn't put it off any longer, he began scanning the shoreline. Suddenly, and as if he had willed it into existence, a cave caught his eye. It was hollowed into a rock face a few hundred yards above the river, the entrance half-covered by ferns.

It was no million-dollar mansion, but the temperature inside would be more bearable than it would be if John were to sleep in a tree again, as he had done countless times. He climbed the rock hill and hoisted himself into the cave, his head throbbing again with the effort and the strain on his ribcage. Leaning back against the wall, he puffed air into his cheeks to bring his pounding heart back to a regular pace. When the flush of exertion had faded from his cheeks and the pain in his side flared down, he set his bag to the side and unzipped it, turning it over and spilling its entire contents onto the rocky floor.

John had never had much to his name, and although he had always dreamed of owning many things, he had found it more practical to travel as lightly as he could. His inventory, spread over the ground before him, consisted of a few extra items of clothing, some shards of flint he had found a few months back, the rubber soles of boots he had traded for with a stranger, and an old bottle he kept water in when he was travelling. The bottle had a long crack in it; John must have crushed it under him when he leaped from the house.

He threw it against the opposite rock wall, angry with himself. He had failed himself in every way; he had almost killed himself earlier, had lost his food, had broken his one source of mobile water, and was injured. With gritted teeth, John curled his hands into fists and slammed them into the rock on either side of his legs.

"Dammit!" he yelled, his voice reverberating through the cave. He paused, almost enjoying the way his voice sounded so different when it bounced off solid rock, how it sounded as if there were a dozen others in the cave with him. He hadn't heard another human's voice in two years, much too long. He turned his face up toward the damp, dark ceiling, yelling louder, "Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit all to Hell!" His voice came back to him, repeated again and again. He smiled tiltedly at the forced companionship.

He looked around, calmer now that he had released some of his tension, and mentally mapped out the rest of his night. He would sleep for a few hours, set a snare or two outside the cave, then forage for whatever edible plants he could find. His belongings fit easily back into his worn bag as he stuffed them in, tucking the whole bundle behind his head as a cushion against the sharp, hard rock.

His head still pulsed as he shuffled his body lower, rolling onto his side to face the cave opening. Through the opening, he could see a faint pink shining over the tops of the trees. He smiled again. At least the pink meant it would be a calm night. No wind or rain would interrupt him while he caught up on much-needed sleep. The pink was so beautiful. Even in the wake of the events of the day, the familiarity of it calmed him. He sighed, pulling his knees into himself and gazing at the sunset.

It was then that he saw it.

He almost thought, for a brief moment, that he had imagined it. After all, it was impossible. It must have been a trick of the light, an invention of the mind, but as he shot up on his knees to get a better look, it became clear to him that what he was seeing was no figment of his imagination, no psychological mirage. It was real.

There, framed in the dying glow of sunset against the mouth of the cave, was the distinct silhouette of a man.