Every day is another habit fallen back into. He opens his eyes at 4am every morning, checks his guns, stares out to the still dark skies, and pretends that he remembers what happened the day before when he'd stalked through the ruins of the towns he'd known so well. He forgets to count the days and hopes that when he sleeps it's only for one night and not for the rest of his life because the last time he'd slept it'd been a nightmare from start to finish. He reminds himself: the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. On the compass, there are really eight directions, not four. Not every road is a straight line.
A new action is added every day to the old.
He listens to the radio when he sets up camp and dreams of cold summer nights in Anchorage or the taste of his wife on his lips or the way she'd looked at him through a plexiglass cell and told him that he wouldn't be put away for life. He dreams of a red haze of rage he'd had no control over and the sting of an injection at his elbow.
He wakes with a start and stares out at the still-dark sky until the stars get fed up with shining. He checks his guns as the dog eats 200 year old cat food somehow perfectly preserved and manages a smile when the animal digs out the teddy bear from his pack. The pipboy says November 25th but he's not quite sure when he'd last checked. Shaun, he thinks, his face in his hands. My son. Shaun. How long has it been?
He loses track. The sun sets in the west. His power armor casts an ever expanding shadow over the road curving toward the opposite horizon. The radio turns on.
He closes his eyes and dreams.