The snow came overnight.
Not enough to cover the ground completely — just a thin dusting, like the forest itself was starting to rot white. The kind of snow that didn't soften anything, only made every sound sharper, every shadow colder.
Jake moved through the trees with his shoulders hunched, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. The cold gnawed at the tips of his ears. His stomach hurt worse than usual. A sharp, hollow cramp that made his legs weak.
He ignored it.
There was something up ahead.
A shape.
Too still to be a walker.
Too small for a deer.
A man.
Hanging.
Jake stopped behind a tree and watched. Nothing moved. No one else nearby. The wind made the old rope creak against the branch. His body hung there like a broken puppet, face turned toward the ground, hair matted with frost.
Jake stayed where he was for a long time.
People were worse than walkers.
But dead was dead.
After a while, he stepped closer, crunching through the snow. The man was middle-aged, maybe forty. His boots looked newer than most. Thick, insulated, dark leather. A small, battered hiking pack hung off one shoulder.
Jake squinted at it, weighing risk against reward.
He knew what to do.
Check the corpse.
Quickly.
Quietly.
His stomach cramped again, sharp enough to make his hands tremble.
"Sorry," he muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure if it was for the man or for himself.
He cut the rope loose with his pocket knife. The man's body crumpled to the snow with a soft, wet thud. Jake flinched, glancing around the clearing, but nothing stirred.
His hands worked fast.
Unzipped the pack.
Half a broken flashlight.
A rolled-up pair of socks.
A protein bar.
A scrap of paper with a hand-drawn map, water-damaged and half illegible.
Jake's hand tightened on the protein bar. The wrapper was faded, the corners frayed. He opened it with shaking fingers, barely caring what it tasted like. The first bite made his teeth ache, but it was real. Food. Actual food.
He ate half before stopping. Saved the rest.
A lesson learned the hard way.
Then his gaze fell to the man's boots.
Sturdy. Newer than his.
His own were cracked and waterlogged, soles worn thin.
Jake knelt by the body. His fingers worked stiffly, undoing the laces. The leather was cold. The man's ankles stiff.
He slipped them off and peeled away his own wet shoes. The cold hit his bare feet hard. He stuffed them into the new boots. A size too big. But they'd do.
He pulled his old shoes into a pile and left them by the body.
The man's face was sunken. Lips blue. Skin stretched.
Jake didn't know his name.
Didn't need to.
He took the flashlight and the map, tucked them into his jacket. He hesitated for a second, then pulled down the man's hood, covering his face.
"Thanks," Jake muttered, not sure if he meant it.
He left the clearing without looking back.
---
That night, back at camp, the wind howled through the trees. Jake huddled by a small, sad fire made of damp twigs. The boots were stiff, but his feet were dry. The protein bar sat in his lap, half-wrapped.
He looked at the flame.
"Wonder what your name was," he murmured to no one.
The wind answered for him.
Didn't matter.
Jake took another bite, chewing slow.
"Guess you got tired too."