- When you get used to the action, being on bedrest is torture.

  - You gotta learn how to pass the time without opening wounds.

  - Or, at the very least, learn shadow puppets and deeply offensive impressions of your friends. That works too.

  ---

  You ever been told to do absolutely nothing?

  Like, nothing nothing?

  Because as it turns out, when you've spent the last few weeks running from zombies, killing variants, surviving blackouts, and nearly dying while dual-wielding trauma and sarcasm, lying in bed becomes exponentially more unbearable than all of that.

  Bedrest. Doctor’s orders. Or, well, Gail’s orders. Which may as well be from the doctor, the president, and God himself the way he barked it.

  So now, here I am.

  Day four of forced recovery in the Overhole basement. Surrounded by old tech, rusting shelves, a mattress that’s more spring than foam, and enough silence to make me contemplate my life choices. All of them.

  I tried sleeping through it.

  Didn’t work. Dreams were too weird. One involved a zombie mime. The other, Gail judging me for my lack of posture.

  I tried reading.

  Too many medical manuals and farming books. I swear, I’ll die before I learn how to grow a decent potato.

  Then... I started experimenting.

  Shadow puppetry? Surprisingly hard when your hands are still bandaged. But hey, my bat-shaped shadow looked more like a moth with a thyroid problem, so that’s a win.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Mimicry? Oh, I went all in.

  My “Gail Voice” was a hit with absolutely no one but me.

  "Discipline. Precision. I once killed a man with a paperclip and the power of disappointment."

  "If you're smiling, you're wrong."

  I even added sound effects. One day I’ll have a full one-man show. Just me, a flashlight, and crippling cabin fever.

  On day three, I tried ventriloquism with an old mop.

  Her name is Moprah.

  She’s wise, sassy, and doesn’t approve of my life choices either.

  ---

  By the time the door upstairs creaked open, signaling the return of the holy scavenger trio—Alex, Jules, and Gail—I was already three monologues into a dramatic soap opera between Moprah and a wrench named Carl. You know, like playing with dolls. But with a mop and a wrench, with more twists than your average teledrama.

  The door opened.

  I flung myself back into bed like a kid caught staying up past bedtime.

  Alex’s boots were the first to clomp down the stairs. Then Jules. Then the clank of Gail’s gear. Probably carrying forty-seven pounds of canned food and existential dread.

  “We’re back!” Alex called.

  “I see you’ve been busy,” Jules added, eyeing the mop propped against the wall, now wearing my spare hoodie.

  “That’s Moprah,” I said. “She’s in mourning.”

  Alex blinked. “What.”

  “Moprah’s fiancé died in a tragic peanut butter accident.”

  Gail squinted. “...Right.”

  They all looked tired but pleased. Dirt-smudged, backpacks full. Probably found something good out there.

  Alex passed me a granola bar. “For your... continued sanity.”

  I tore it open with the desperation of a man who’d tried eating dust just to feel something.

  Jules gave me a small smile, quiet and warm. She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. We were slowly rebuilding... whatever we were. Like someone trying to reassemble IKEA furniture with no manual and three missing screws.

  Gail placed a stack of supplies on the desk and stretched. “Good haul. Two full medkits. More ammo. Couple of solar lamps. Some dried goods.”

  “Nice,” I said. “That’s better than my haul. I discovered my left pinky twitches when I’m bored. That’s all I’ve got.”

  They chuckled. Even Gail.

  That’s when Alex leaned in. Close. Real close.

  She cupped a hand to the side of her mouth, conspiratorial as hell.

  “I’m only saying this once,” she whispered. “And if you tell anyone, I’ll replace your pain meds with laxatives.”

  I blinked.

  She smiled.

  “Gail and I are dating.”

  I almost choked on the granola bar.

  “WHAT?!”

  “Shhh!”

  Jules perked up from the other side of the room. “Everything okay?”

  “Yep,” Alex said. “Elliot’s just remembering that Moprah’s allergic to peanuts.”

  I nodded rapidly. “Deadly allergy. So tragic.”

  She gave me a smug look before heading to unpack.

  And I just sat there. Reeling.

  Gail. And Alex.

  Gail and Alex?!

  The brooding soldier built from concrete and grunts... and the chaotic tech gremlin with the energy of a squirrel on 6 cans of Red Bull?

  Honestly?

  I didn’t hate it.

  I didn’t get it. But I didn’t hate it.

  Maybe this weird apocalypse was warping all our standards. Or maybe they saw something in each other the rest of us didn’t.

  Or maybe—just maybe—they were just two people finding light in the chaos. Like me and Jules had. Like I still hoped we could again.

  I looked over at Jules. She was sorting bandages, humming softly to herself.

  Yeah. Still hoped.

  ---

  That night, I lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling, Moprah watching over me like a cursed guardian angel.

  Recovery sucked. I wanted to fight. Run. Laugh. Bleed a little.

  But maybe learning how to stop—how to breathe—was just as important.

  Maybe rest was its own kind of survival skill.

  So I let the silence in.

  Just for a while.