Dawn broke, not with the warmth of a new day, but with the cold, gray light of a hangover. The first rays filtered through the grimy windows of the auto shop, illuminating the dust in the air and the exhaustion on every face. They had survived the night, but the silence was heavy with the ghosts of the clinic and the fresh, quiet loss of old George.
Quinn was the first to move, his body aching but his mind already calculating, assessing. He did a quiet inventory of their supplies, laying them out on a clean workbench. The sight was sobering. Three bottles of water. Two cans of beans, one of fruit cocktail. The half-eaten bag of crackers. A handful of antibiotics from the clinic, now more precious than gold. It was enough for a day, maybe two if they were careful. It was not enough to live on.
