Camdyn awoke to the loud clang of tools outside. He blinked against the sunlight seeping through the vines of his window. His father was already up. He contemplated turning over again, but each clang rang sharper in his skull. It was probably deliberate.

  Camdyn groaned, dragging himself out of bed. He threw on his jacket and stepped out into the shared space.

  The Maddens had a humble home—everyone in the colony did—most built up from the surviving foundations of the Old World, cobbled together with scrap metal, wood patches, and whatever else they could salvage. A few repurposed solar panels lined the roofs, now powered by car batteries, producing just enough power to provide light at nightfall—when they decided to work anyway.

  He found his mother sweeping dirt from the patchwork tile. Elowyn wore a long tunic fashioned from sackcloth, and a drawstring loosely held back her fiery curls, just starting to grey. She swept the pile of dust through the gaping doorway before wiping her forehead on her sleeve. She always did her best to make the place feel like home. Although the furniture was a mismatch of scavenged goods from the Ruins and traded items crafted by the local carpenter, it was all full of heart.

  “Mornin’, Mom.” Camdyn poured himself water from an overused jug, careful to sip from the unchipped side of the mug.

  Her face melted into a smile. “Good morning. How did you sleep, sweetheart?”

  “Just fine until the racket. What’s Dad up to?”

  “Oh, something with the roof. You know your father. If there isn’t a problem, he’ll find one to fix,” she said lightly.

  “Don’t I know it,” Camdyn muttered into his drink.

  “Speaking of which, he wanted to talk to you.”

  “Did he say why?”

  She gave him a look. “You know why.”

  Right. “I told Alden I’d be there today.”

  She quirked a brow. “You said that yesterday.”

  “Well, the clinic’s been busy. It’s good for me to learn.”

  “I’m sure your father feels the same about scouting.”

  “Yes, but I actually like the clinic.”

  Her eyes softened. “I know your father doesn’t always get you, but he has your best interests at heart.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “He loves you. Not as much as I love you,” she said playfully and then more firmly added, “But he does love you.”

  His mom cupped his chin, and he gave her a half-hearted smile, pulling his face away from her grasp.

  “Alright, go on then. Off to your precious clinic.” She shooed him.

  Camdyn finished his water and placed it on the tabletop. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  He headed toward the back of the house.

  “At least use the front door, Cam!” she called after him.

  “I’m taking the scenic route!” he yelled back.

  His mother shook her head with a smile and carried on cleaning.

  Camdyn crept through the back hallway, pulling aside the linen sheet that covered what used to be a window—now just a gaping hole in the wall. He peered around the corner, searching for any sign of his father.

  Walker’s backside was to him, but his presence was unmistakable: lean, weathered, and sharp as the axe strapped to his back.

  It had grown quiet now… Walker must’ve finished up with the roof. Camdyn backed away slowly, slipping away in the opposite direction, as if even his scent might give him away to the shark of a man.

  Besides, there was more than one way to get to the heart of the colony.

  He knew the other way would’ve been shorter. It was intended to be the main road into “town” after all but it was still too early in the day to catch an earful from his dad. So, the long way it was. And it actually was pleasant weather for the walk.

  It was a still morning, save for the gentle birdsong that carried on the breeze. Camdyn started down the path through the woods that led to New Haven. They didn’t know its original name, its old identity swallowed up with everything else in the Great Collapse, but that’s what the first settlers decided on, and it stuck.

  The running theory was that New Haven used to be a suburb, housing a small community of people, much like their own, with all the staples of a classic small town: modest, cottage-style homes, a local diner, town hall, gas station, the works. At least, that’s how it was advertised on some sun-faded promotional flyer tucked away in the Archive.

  He and Roenen used to take frequent trips to the “library” when they were kids. Granted, it wasn’t a real library. In the Old World, it would’ve been a post office. They didn’t have much use for mail anymore, so it had been repurposed into an archive. A place to store found knowledge from the former timeline. Most of it was educational: engineering manuals, botany guides, old medical journals, and the like. But that wasn’t what interested Camdyn and Roenen. Not back then. They were after fragments. Old magazines, postcards, flyers, and pretty much anything that gave them a glimpse into what had been. A world they could only imagine. A world they dreamed could be once again.

  The path through the woods was pretty tame, but the greater context made it feel more like a graveyard. Not from bodies, although given the circumstances, there were probably plenty of those buried there, but from the rubble of a once busy world that now lay silent at the feet of tall pines.

  Camdyn drew nearer to the center of New Haven. As he did, he could hear the sounds of the colony waking: footsteps mixed with the clatter of hooves, the low murmur of early conversations cut through by the happy shrieks of children at play. A perfect cacophony.

  The plaza was where New Haven came to life. It was the heart of the community, where goods were exchanged and gossip changed hands just as easily. Those with brick-and-mortar buildings—or what remained of them—propped their doors open to invite the day in. Others set up makeshift stalls along the uneven cobblestone, leaving narrow walkways for foot traffic to squeeze through. Tables fashioned from salvaged doors and rusted sheet metal bowed under the weight of tallow soap, jarred roots pickling in vinegar, and coils of copper wire. Dried herbs hung in bundles tied with twine. Hand-carved tools and weapons lined the edges. Each one forged from necessity, but not without passion.

  Much like most other colonies, New Haven didn’t run on currency. Money had lost meaning a while ago. Instead, value was measured in trade. If you didn’t have a valuable item, then you’d better pray you had a valuable skill. Walker ran a tight operation, too, which meant everyone had to contribute. No work, no food.

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  That’s not to say they didn’t have their indulgences. Tucked away amongst the practical were little luxuries: silver trinkets, Old World jewelry, near-empty bottles of perfume, weathered playing cards from before the Collapse–some maintaining their allure, others gaining it over time. And for the riskier crowd, the occasional magical item smuggled in through back channels despite strict bans. Those shinier, rarer things were seldom seen in the light of day. They were brought out at night, to dimly lit corners and after-hours gambling sessions where the stakes were high and the rules were loose.

  Camdyn stepped out of the woods and onto the cracked cobblestone that circled an old but striking fountain. It hadn’t worked in ages, but the kids still had their fun splashing around in it. He passed just as one of the little ones jumped in, nearly drenching a passing bread cart.

  The cart’s owner, Lena—a high-strung woman with perpetually flour-dusted garments—jerked back, letting out a sharp string of curses in her native tongue. Her dark braid swung as she turned to face the kids, eyes flashing.

  They froze instantly.

  “Be more careful, yes?” she finally snapped in English, punctuating the command with a stern glare.

  The kids nodded solemnly, but it only lasted a heartbeat before their laughter rang out again, echoing off the walls of old buildings dressed in ivy and scrap.

  Kids. Camdyn chuckled to himself.

  He moved on, slipping through the steady current of the plaza like blood through a living body. The clamor faded as he took a branching side path that was wider, quieter, and much more his speed. Grass pushed up through cracks in the pavement, and rows of crops flourished where buildings had fallen, sprouting amongst skeletal ruins.

  The infirmary finally came into view: worn, in need of some love, but standing strong. It had been an animal hospital at one point, but they hollowed it out, patched up the collapsed roof with tin and tarps, and converted it for human use. Which was a shame. Of all the things the Old World had lost, he wished dogs hadn’t been one of them.

  A little bell rang as he entered the building, the door giving a soft creak behind him before it shut. The smell in the clinic was distinct but familiar. Sharp herbs, musty wood, and something faintly metallic beneath it all.

  A man in his early fifties stood at the counter. He wore sleeves rolled to the elbow, canvas apron streaked with old stains, and reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His neatly trimmed beard was streaked silver with age—and just a touch of stress.

  “Morning, Camdyn,” Alden greeted him without looking up, hands moving deftly through jars of dried herbs as he took the inventory, calloused but steady. He was the closest thing they had to a medic. He learned the trade from his father, who learned from trial and error and a whole lot of reading.

  “Hey, Alden. Those new?”

  He finally took a moment to look at him, an inquisitive crease between his brows.

  “The glasses.” Camdyn clarified, motioning at his face.

  “Ah, yes. As you know, I’m always on the lookout for new readers,” he replied, “Well, my wife had these waiting for me last night.”

  “They better than the last ones?”

  “Eh, well, they’re certainly not worse,” he said with a smile.

  They’ll end up in his drawer of discarded spectacles in no time.

  “How’s it been this morning?” Camdyn asked.

  “Well, no new cases of flu-like symptoms. So, I’d say that’s a positive. Quarantine’s working like a charm.”

  “Well, that’s good!” Camdyn agreed.

  “I just might be able to enjoy tea over a book.”

  “They have anything new down at the Archive?”

  “They uncovered half of a copy of Moby Dick a few days ago.”

  “Which half?” he chuckled.

  “The end half, I believe.”

  “Well, at least you can know how it ends,” Camdyn offered up, “The first half is probably just descriptors and backstory. The end is where all the meat is.”

  Alden laughed, the sound dry and fond. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t read much.”

  “Guilty,” he admitted with a shrug. “But hey, maybe I’ll stop by the Archive later. Try to piece together the classics, one ruined chapter at a time.”

  The chime of the bell interrupted their conversation. Both men glanced toward the door just as it creaked open to reveal a girl no older than ten hobbling inside. She was a familiar face around the infirmary always in and out thanks to scrapes, bruises, and the occasional sprain from dares gone wrong or too much roughhousing.

  She blew a curtain of mousy brown hair out of her face, revealing a wide, toothy grin—minus a canine that was just starting to grow back in.

  “Hi, Camdyn. Heya, Doc,” she greeted them.

  “Good heavens, child,” Alden sighed. “Can you stay out of trouble for one minute?”

  “What hurts this time, Jessi?” Camdyn asked.

  “Just my ankle,” she replied. “My foot caught a root while chasing the others in the woods. I almost won too.” She pouted.

  “Let’s take a look at that.” Camdyn scooped her up gently, placing her on the countertop with care.

  Alden crouched beside her, inspecting the ankle with a practiced eye. Jessi winced under his touch but tried to hide it behind a brave face.

  “Looks like you just twisted it,” he finally assessed. “This time. You need to be more careful.”

  “I know,” she muttered, already familiar with this particular lecture.

  “You need compression and elevation. And most importantly, to keep off it.” His tone grew firmer with the last part.

  Jessi nodded, sheepish.

  “I can finish this up, Alden,” Camdyn offered.

  He gave him a nod. “I’ll go find a crutch that suits her.”

  As the older man stepped away, Camdyn rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a roll of linen bandage. He spoke while kneeling in front of her, beginning to wrap her foot with practiced ease.

  “You know,” he said casually, “when I was your age, I tried to climb a tree to impress a girl. Ended up stuck there for two hours.”

  “Did she like you after?”

  “Nope. She told everyone I cried like a baby.”

  That earned him a giggle.

  Alden returned just then, holding a crutch that looked slightly too tall for Jessi.

  “We’ll make it work,” the doctor said dryly, setting it beside her.

  Jessi looked at the crutch, then at Camdyn. “So… did you ever climb another tree after that?”

  He chuckled. “Eventually. But not to impress anyone. Just because I wanted to see the view.”

  She tilted her head, thinking it over.

  Camdyn gave the final wrap a tuck and patted her gently on the knee. “People will always come and go. Some will laugh when you fall. But the things you do just for yourself. Those are the ones worth noting.”

  Jessi grinned, trying out her new crutch. “I’ll remember that,” she said, a little more seriously than usual.

  “Good. Now try not to trip over any more roots.”

  “No promises.”

  Alden watched as she hobbled back out the door. “You’d be wasted as a scout,” he mumbled, putting his workspace back in order.

  Camdyn didn’t answer. He heard that a lot. From him. From others. And though none of them dared say it directly, he could feel it in the way they watched him. Like they all knew he wasn’t the son his father wanted him to be.