Chapter Text
Sam wakes up cold.
Henry is laying next to him, layered in too many jackets, shivering. Sam presses his foot against the back of his brother’s leg. Henry jumps.
“Holy fuck, Sam-We have socks, you don’t need to make me jump like that.”
“Just making sure you’re awake.” He flashes a grin at Henry when he rolls over. Henry shivers again.
No matter how many blankets they’ve packed under the door of the apartment, the snow’s breath still makes its way into their room. Sam wonders if he’ll ever get used to the cold. He’ll have to, if they find Jackson. He knows they’re close. They have to be, this has to be the last day of travel.
He grew up a relatively sheltered child for the world he lived in, thanks to his brother. When there was snow, Sam and Henry made snow angels. When there was heat, they found a lake to cool off in. When there were clickers, they raced to see who could get to safety first. Sam grew up learning how to make good times out of shit situations. He doesn’t know how to fix the one they’re in now.
Henry is hurt. Really hurt. A scratch from a broken fence that seemed miniscule weeks ago is now angry and red and terrifyingly large, taking over most of Henry’s forearm. Clickers are awful, but Sam knows them. He has no idea how to fix his brother, and even less of an idea what he’ll do if he loses him.
Their best bet is Jackson. They’ll have medical supplies and doctors with information on how to save Henry. Joel described it like some kind of oasis, somewhere Clickers weren’t.
Sam thinks of Joel and Ellie often. When he was younger, Ellie was the coolest person he had ever met. She probably still is, even after five years apart.
He wonders if she’s still taller than him. If she still reads whatever copies of Savage Starlight she can find, if her hair falls swoops into her face when she’s focusing on a drawing, if she’s still even alive to see him again. He hopes with every part of himself that she’s out there, somewhere.
If Sam does anything right in his life, it’ll be saving his brother. He is not letting Henry die from a fucking scratch. It can’t happen. He won’t let it happen.
It’s light enough outside now to get a start on their day. He puts his shoes and socks on, helping Henry into his. The snow is deep enough that his ankles are soaked by the time they get to a major street.
The cold itches at his eyes. It punches into his lungs. It drives him toward Jackson.