Every morning, the bag is packed the same. 3 days' rations, in case of emergency; a wind-up torch, pre-wound (since the rusted mechanism is loud enough to wake up entire swathes of forest); hunting rifle; spare bullets; waterskin; medical supplies; notebook, full of unskilled but earnest sketches; pen, always a little low on ink. Mars swings it onto their back each time the sun rises, wiping sleep from their eyes and trying not to wake the others.
Some days, Peregrine joins. Those days, they catch less game, but the maps grow finer each time. Whispered advice keeps Peregrine safe; whispered jokes keep them both sane.
Other days, others join. Some, like The Saint, are familiar, constant faces, taking part in the daily tasks that beget survival. The rest are strangers and old friends, alike in the transience of their presence here.
The best days are the worst days - the days when it's just Mars, doing what needs to be done. On those mornings, if they listen hard enough, they can hear Lottie's voice through the trees, pure as it was before the sickness, guiding them to carry on.
{[]}