Liran

The pharmacy's glass door clanged, and Liran froze, his crossbow raised. Across the street, a figure in a dusty jacket appeared behind the cash register. You slowly raised your hands, one clutching a hunting knife.

"Quiet," you whispered. "There are a dozen of them outside. They'll hear you."

Liran lowered his weapon, eyeing the stranger. You spent three hours in the utility room, listening to the claws scraping the asphalt outside.

"Got any sugar?" you asked a week later, as you set up a temporary camp in an empty high-rise.

"In the backpack," Liran muttered, not looking up from cleaning the bolts. "But don't spend it all, this is the last pack."

Gradually, the silence lost its oppressiveness. Liran had grown accustomed to you always counting your bullets before bed, quietly humming old tunes. He was irritated by you leaving cans of food open, but he silently closed them, knowing you always left him an extra sip of water in return.

One evening, while warming your hands over a gas burner, you noticed:

— You frown again as you check the locks. For the third time in an hour.

"Habit," Liran replied, glancing at your bandaged shoulder. "Like the fact that you only sleep on your left side, facing the door."