"I don't see how you can share what you have after what I did..." The man sat sullenly staring at the rad roach I cooked up for him.

"Stop beating yourself over it." I gruffed out while I attempted to make another knife.

"I pointed a gun at you!" He exclaimed as he turned towards me.

"With all due respect, sir, I hardly call THAT a gun." I retorted, indicated to the beat-up plastic gun in his belt. I couldn't help but roll my eyes as I stared out in front of me.

I sat on the front porch of my beat-up shack overlooking the great expanse of wood and plains. In my quaint front yard was two children. The older child, who've I learned was named Lucas, was about 12 years old. He was smiling with my three-legged kitten, Lola, on his lap while his little sister, Maya, was playing with my collie named Charlie. I couldn't help but smile. It's been awhile since I've seen any children; much less any of them with a smile on their face. I looked to my left at the dad, and from the expression on his face, he agreed with me.

It was different from the face he was making before. But I guess it's hard to make a face of content when you were pointing a gun at a random stranger. Now, I was used to guns being pointed at me. It came with life, especially in this world. But what made me nervous was the fact that he clearly didn't know what he was doing. He looked frantic, though he did try to put on a brave face, and his hands were shaking; and that's when I saw the gun was fake.

I couldn't help but let out a light chuckle as I let my arms fall to my sides. The guy looked at me like I was crazy and demanded that I give him all the food and water I had. Again, I chucked. I walked away and headed towards my small store beside my shack.
"I need to cook up this rad roach before it goes bad. Want some?" I called over my shoulder. And that is the lovely meeting between Bradly Munch and his two children.

Apparently, the small community they were at became overrun with ghouls. They were lucky that their small shack that they were occupying had an old bomb shelter from before the Wasteland. They hid out for a few days and when rations started to go wear out, they escaped.

They've apparently been traveling for weeks. When they ran out of reserves, the dad scouted ahead and stole supplies from loners; threatening to shoot with his "gun" if they didn't. Half didn't realize and gave in to his demands while the other half did and ran him off, escaping with only a few scrapes and bruises.

"Still, I am very sorry for threatening you. I just..." he couldn't finish his sentence, guilt and shame taking over. "I remember stealing when I was a young man. But that was when I was on my own, no family to take care of, nobody to worry about. But that was years ago and I've changed. Found a wonderful wife and gave me two wonderful children..." he trailed off, lost in thought before he continued, "My wife was part of our raiding squad in our community. She and a few others would leave for a few days every month to hunt and find us supplies... she never came back. Raiders." I could see his face getting upset at the memory. "They never stole from anyone! They found only abandoned sights and bartered with travelers. They even brought people to join our community but they never stole anything!" He couldn't help but let a few stray tears in his anguish. I didn't comment and he didn't ask for comfort. So, I let him sit in his memory, giving him only another person's presence for comfort.

When we both went back to our sullen silence, watching his children play worry free for what probably felt forever, I stood up and went inside without a word and came back with a whisky. One of my lucky finds is finding alcohol. Most times it's used for treating cuts and wounds, but sometimes it's needed for times like this. I sat back down next to him and handed him a half glass, taking the glass hesitantly.

"You guys can stay till for as long as you need. You can't stay forever, but I'll give you food, lodgings, even a nice shower for some work. Till you guys get back on your feet." I offered.

"Thank you. I can't help but take you up on your offer." He looked around at my property. "I would be lying if I said it never occurred to me to stay here with my children, but there is actually another community a few more days from here. There's a trader that would come by every few months that told us about a community a lot like ours. I think that would be best for us."

I couldn't help but smile. "I couldn't agree more." We sat there in silence, sipping on whiskey as the children played with the animals till the sun went down. I barricaded my shop, set up traps around the shop and around my shack with a stern warning to the children and father not to go outside until I have to disable the traps. I gave a quick tour of my shack and put the children to bed. The moment their heads touched the pillows, they were dead to the world. I dragged an extra bed into the kids' room so he can stay close to his children. I could tell that even though we posed no threat, I was still and stranger he knew absolutely nothing about me. Understandable. You'd have to be a real idiot to trust the first person to show you a little kindness. Not in this Wasteland.

I bid them farewell a few days later. After the father helped me fix my backup generator and had a few extra hands to help tend my garden, the Munch family decided they were well enough to continue their journey.

With some rations, some homemade sleeping bags and a "real" gun to defend himself and his children, the three of them left with some color back in their cheeks and a bit of life in their eyes. I watched them leave till I could see them no more. When I was sure they were gone from my sight, I went back inside to my makeshift office downstairs. I pulled out a piece of paper and some lead I had stored and sat down at my desk. This is a ritual I feel I must do every time I meet a new stranger, a new story…maybe even a new friend.

So, I wrote their story, with as much detail as I could remember, and hope that maybe I will be able to add to their story.

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