By morning, my mouth tasted like pennies and old smoke.
We'd walked through most of the night, stopping only when our legs threatened to fold under us. Rowan set the pace without asking, and I followed because following was easier than thinking. Dawn didn't arrive so much as dilute the dark—turning it gray, then thinner gray, then something close enough to light that you could pretend it mattered.
We took shelter beneath a collapsed billboard just off the highway. The metal frame groaned softly as the wind pushed through it, a tired animal sound that made my skin prickle. Rowan checked the horizon, then the road behind us, then the snow for signs we hadn't been followed.
Satisfied—or as close to it as anyone got—he sat.
I copied him, lowering myself carefully, joints screaming in protest. The cold had settled deeper overnight. It wasn't just on my skin anymore. It felt internal, like something had taken up residence in my chest and refused to leave.
Rowan pulled a strip of dried meat from his pack and tore it in half with his teeth. He handed me the larger piece without comment.
I hesitated.
"Eat," he said. "Thinking burns calories."
That did it. I ate slowly, chewing until my jaw ached, forcing myself to stop before the hunger convinced me to swallow too fast. The meat tasted like salt and old iron, but my stomach quieted, and that felt like a gift.
We didn't speak while we ate. Talking made food disappear faster.
After, Rowan wiped his hands on his pants and leaned back against the billboard's support beam. "You need to understand something," he said.
I waited.
"Food isn't food anymore," he continued. "It's time. It's distance. It's whether you get to keep your fingers."
I nodded. I already knew that, but hearing it said out loud gave it weight. Rules were easier to follow when someone else admitted they existed.
"There are people east of here," Rowan went on. "Small groups. No towns. Towns die fast. They trade."
"What do they want?" I asked.
He snorted softly. "Depends on the day. Bullets. Batteries. Labor. Sometimes just the illusion that tomorrow's different."
"And food?"
"That's the problem." He looked at me then, really looked. "Everyone wants food. No one gives it up without taking something back that hurts more."
We packed up and moved again, keeping to the tree line where the snow was thinner and the wind broke unevenly. The land opened up as the city fell away behind us—fields buried beneath drifts, fences half-swallowed, the occasional barn collapsed inward like it had bowed to the season and stayed there.
Around midday, we found the camp.
It wasn't marked, not really. No smoke, no flag, no obvious sign. Just a ring of trees bent inward unnaturally, branches trimmed back, snow packed flat in places where feet had passed too often to hide. If you weren't looking for it, you'd walk right past.
Rowan stopped short and raised a hand.
"Don't speak unless spoken to," he murmured. "And don't lie unless you're good at it."
We stepped into view slowly, hands visible. My pack felt suddenly heavier, like it was full of accusations.
A man emerged from behind a fallen log, crossbow leveled casually in our direction. He wore layers stitched together from different coats, patches mismatched and practical. His eyes flicked over us, cataloging.
"State your business," he said.
"Trade," Rowan replied. Calm. Flat. "Food."
The man's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "Everyone wants food."
"And everyone's got something," Rowan said. "We're no different."
The man studied us for a long moment, then lowered the crossbow just enough to suggest this wasn't a test anymore. "Follow."
The camp itself was small—seven people total, including the lookout. They'd hollowed out the center of the tree ring, dug down just enough to get out of the worst of the wind, and reinforced the edges with scrap wood and tarps. A fire burned low and hot in a pit lined with stone, smoke drawn sideways through a crude vent to disperse before it rose.
Smart.
A woman with frostbitten cheeks stirred a pot over the fire. The smell made my stomach lurch painfully. Broth. Thin, but real.
I forced myself not to stare.
Rowan did the talking. He always did. He laid out what we had—tools, rope, ammunition down to exact counts. The camp leader, a broad-shouldered woman with iron-gray hair pulled tight against her scalp, listened without interruption.
"And you?" she asked me suddenly.
I blinked. "What?"
"What do you bring?" she clarified.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I could list items. I could list skills. None of them felt sufficient in that moment.
"I don't wait," I said finally.
The words surprised me as they left my mouth. The woman studied me, eyes sharp.
"Good," she said. "Neither do we."
The trade was brutal.
Two cans of broth concentrate for ammunition. One pouch of grain for the crowbar. A night's shelter for labor—clearing snow, reinforcing the perimeter, hauling wood. My muscles screamed as I worked, fingers numb despite constant movement. The cold bit deeper when you were exhausted. It punished weakness openly.
While I worked, I watched.
People here didn't talk much. When they did, it was about tasks, not feelings. They ate together, backs turned outward, eyes scanning the trees. No one laughed. No one cried. The fire was a tool, not a comfort.
That night, we sat with them around the pit, sipping broth that tasted like salt and bones and survival. A man across from me coughed too hard, then too long. No one reached for him. He waved them off eventually, breathing ragged.
"He won't last," Rowan said quietly, not looking at him.
I hated how easily I agreed.
The sounds came after midnight.
Not close enough to panic. Not far enough to ignore.
Low, rhythmic exhales drifting through the trees. Something brushed the outer branches, slow and exploratory. The camp stiffened as one, bodies leaning subtly toward weapons.
No one spoke.
The noises circled, paused, then moved on. The waiting stretched thin, brittle. When the sounds finally faded, the relief felt wrong—temporary in a way that left a sour taste behind.
At dawn, the coughing man was dead.
He sat slumped against a tree, head tilted, mouth open slightly. Frozen where he'd stopped breathing. The camp didn't move him. They stepped around him, eyes averted.
"He stays," the gray-haired woman said. "Warning."
Rowan and I left shortly after, packs heavier with food and guilt. As we walked away, I glanced back once. The man was still there, already dusted with fresh snow.
Standing, not fallen.
I looked ahead again quickly.
We didn't speak for miles.
When Rowan finally broke the silence, his voice was rough. "That's the rule."
"What rule?" I asked.
"Food costs," he said. "And it doesn't care who pays."
We walked on, bellies fuller, spirits heavier. I understood then that surviving winter wasn't about finding food.
It was about deciding what you were willing to lose to keep eating.
And the cold was always keeping score.