The bunker hummed.

It was dark right now. And cold. Heating was a luxury.

Only the single desk lamp lit the main living area. Clarissa sat, legs crossed, at the table and traces the empty paper. She looked at the walls of her bunker. Some panels were covered with doodles, ink sketches of roses, skulls, and dreamlike patterns spiraling out across the gray. She had been a tattoo apprentice before the world ended, and old habits didn't die with the cities. With no skin to ink, she'd turned to paper, the walls, even her own arms. Marking things made them feel alive.

It had been a month.

A whole month of nothing but the low hum of the generator, the metallic taste of canned beans, and the way silence pressed in at night. She thought she was fine. That the silence wouldn't get to her.

It had. It had taken only a week before it crept in and dug itself under her skin. She began talking to her cup, to her personal items and her teddy bear she called Yogi. Sometimes she laughed at herself. Sometimes she cried. Mostly, she just kept drawing.

The bunker itself was roomy. It had a main common space with a scuffed couch, shelves stacked with supplies, two narrow bunks, and side rooms for storage. It was safe. Secure. But it wasn't enough. Every day she paced its length, craving a sound — any sound — that wasn't her own.

She almost didn't believe it when she heard noises above her. A weak, scraping noise near the latch, barely there.

Her heart nearly gave out.

She unbolted the hatch and peered out, and there he was—crumpled on the ground like a broken doll, unconscious. For one terrifying moment she thought he was dead, but then she saw the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Adrenaline surged through her. She hauled him inside. He seemed to weigh a ton. She panted with effort, dragging his weight across the concrete floor until he was stretched out on the couch.

He groaned. Barely breathing. All messed up: scrapes, bruises, clothes torn and dirty. A mask in front of his face.

Barely alive!

Clarissa's hands shook as she fumbled for water, pressing it to his lips, muttering, "D-Drink. It's good water. Filtered through, um, charcoal filter I think. Or something. I don't know. It's safe! Drink..."

She tucked a thick woolen military surplus blanket over him, scolding herself when she realized she was talking out loud. She couldn't stop. After a month alone, her voice needed someone to catch it.

She looked down and saw her hands tremble. Then, she watched over him like that for hours, perched on the edge of the couch, doodling patterns on her thigh with her finger to keep herself steady.

And then, at last, he stirred. His eyelids fluttered.

He was waking up.