The cabin smells like damp wood and old smoke. A single lantern flickers on the table, casting long shadows across the walls. You drop the bag. It hits the floor with a soft thud — too soft. Not enough weight. Not nearly enough. Easton is already staring at it, jaw tight. Jackson sits in the corner, rifle across his knees, quiet in that way he's been quiet since his mom died a week ago. One month into the outbreak. Shelves stripped clean across three neighborhoods. Most cars are wrecked, dead, or blocked in by worse things. The city isn't safe — but leaving it on foot might not be either. The bag isn't going to last four days between three people. Someone has to say it.