*A knock came at the door

It was early morning, and the sun filtered through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, casting fragmented beams of light across the room. Noah was sitting at the kitchen table, sharpening the blade of his hunting knife with quiet focus. Olivia was in the pantry, humming softly as whipped up a simple breakfast from the rations.

Then came the knock.

It was sharp, urgent, cutting through the silence like a blade. Both of them froze. Noah’s hand instinctively tightened around the knife, his heart hammering in his chest. A knock. That meant someone—or something—was outside.

“Stay here,” he whispered, rising from his seat. Olivia opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, her eyes wide with concern. She followed him to the living room despite his protests.

The knocking came again, harder this time. Noah peeked through a crack in the barricaded window, his body tense. Standing on the porch was a man—tall, rough-looking, with a weathered face and a scruffy beard. His clothes were torn and dirtied, and a patch of blood stained the side of his shirt.

“Please,” the man called out, his voice hoarse but firm. “I’m not infected. I just need shelter—just for a couple of days. I’ve got supplies I can trade.”

Noah turned back to Olivia, shaking his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“But he’s hurt,” Olivia whispered, her expression torn. “We can’t just leave him out there. What if he’s telling the truth?”

“We don’t know him,” Noah hissed. “He could be lying. He could be dangerous.”

“And what if he’s not?” Olivia pressed, her voice barely audible over the sound of her heartbeat. “Look at him, Noah. He’s wounded. If we turn him away, it’s a **** sentence.”

Noah clenched his jaw, every instinct telling him to send the man away. But the look in Olivia’s eyes—pleading, ****—made him hesitate. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he unlatched the door, keeping the knife raised as a precaution.

The man staggered forward, his hands raised to show he meant no harm. Up close, he looked even rougher—his face was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. He leaned heavily against the door frame, grimacing as he held his side.

“Thank you,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Oh thank God, another human face. I promise, I’m not infected. Just... got caught by some barbed wire when I was running.”

Noah didn’t lower the knife. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Name’s Greg,” the man said, his breathing labored. “I was out hunting when... all this started. Came back to my town—place was overrun. Lost everything. Been running ever since. Just need a place to rest for a couple of days, let this wound heal. After that, I’ll be out of your hair.”

Noah narrowed his eyes, not convinced. “And how do we know you’re not a threat?”

“I brought supplies,” Greg said, motioning weakly to the battered backpack slung over his shoulder. “Food, water. Enough for a week. It’s yours if you let me stay.”

Olivia stepped forward, her gaze softening as she looked at the blood staining his shirt. “Let me see your wound.”

Greg hesitated but nodded, wincing as he lifted his shirt. A deep gash ran along his side, jagged but not infected. Olivia’s nursing instincts kicked in immediately.

“It’s not too bad,” she said, her voice steady. “You’ll need a few stitches and some rest, but you’ll be fine.”

“Olivia,” Noah growled, his tone a warning.

“We can’t turn him away,” she said firmly, meeting Noah’s gaze. “Not like this. He’s offering supplies. He’s not a threat.”

Noah sighed, lowering the knife but keeping it in his hand. “Fine. Two days. That’s it.”

Greg nodded, his expression one of weary gratitude. “Thank you. I’ll stay out of your way. Just need to catch my breath.”

[+10 Food]