#proposed diagnosis

[hauntedselves]

Proposed Diagnostic Criteria for Daydreaming Disorder (Maladaptive Daydreaming)

A. Persistent and recurrent fantasy activity that is vivid and fanciful, as indicated by the individual exhibiting two (or more) of the following in a 6-month period; at least one of these should be Criterion 1:

While daydreaming, experiences an intense sense of absorption/immersion that includes visual, auditory, or affective properties

Daydreaming is triggered, maintained, or enhanced with exposure to music

Daydreaming is triggered, maintained, or enhanced with exposure to stereotypical movement (e.g., pacing, rocking, hand movements)

Often daydreams when feels distressed or bored

Daydreaming length or intensity intensifies in the absence of others (e.g., daydreams more when alone)

Is annoyed when unable to daydream or when daydreaming is interrupted or curbed

Would rather daydream than engage in daily chores, social, academic, or professional activities

Has made repeated unsuccessful efforts to control, cut back, or stop daydreaming

B. The disturbance causes clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.

C. The disturbance is not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication) or a general medical condition (e.g., dementia) and is not better explained by autism spectrum disorders, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, schizophrenia spectrum disorders, bipolar I disorder, obsessive–compulsive and related disorders, dissociative identity disorder, substance-related and addictive disorders, an organic disorder, or a medical condition.

Note. Current severity defined as follows: Mild - experiences mainly distress, no obvious functional impairment; moderate - one area of functioning is affected (e.g., work); severe - more than area of functioning is affected (e.g., work, school or social life) (p. 180).

-

MD is associated with social anxiety and addiction (particularly internet addiction) (p. 177), as well as dissociation, obsessive-compulsive behaviour, and inattention / attention deficit (p. 181).

People who seek treatment for MD are misdiagnosed with a variety of conditions; "...professionals were unfamiliar with their problem and provided various diagnoses, including depressive disorder, anxiety disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder, borderline personality disorder, and dissociative disorder" (p. 178).

"MD is uniquely characterized by a kinesthetic component, a need for evocative music, and an addictive yearning to compulsively engage in this mental behavior" (p. 184).

-

From Somer et al., 'Maladaptive Daydreaming: Proposed Diagnostic Criteria and Their Assessment With a Structured Clinical Interview', Psychology of Consciousness: Theory, Research, and Practice (2017), Vol. 4, No. 2, pp. 176-189. DOI: 10.1037/cns0000.

Another interesting & related article is Somer et al., 'Representations of Maladaptive Daydreaming and the Self: A Qualitative Analysis of Drawings', The Arts in Psychotherapy (2019), Vol. 63, pp. 102-110. DOI: 10.1016/j.aip.2018.12.004.

[autumnoakes]

y'all ever just read something and get so incredibly angry

[hhtpakistan]

Unpacking Developmental Trauma: The Hidden Struggles of Childhood

[clownfangs]

-

[trans-axolotl]

also in regards to that last article about varied ways of thinking about psychosis/altered states that don't just align with medical model or carceral psychiatry---I always love sharing about Bethel House and their practices of peer support for schizophrenia that are founded on something called tojisha kenkyu, but I don't see it mentioned as often as things like HVN and Soteria House.

ID: [A colorful digital drawing of a group of people having a meeting inside a house while it snows outside.]

"What really set the stage for tōjisha-kenkyū were two social movements started by those with disabilities. In the 1950s, a new disability movement was burgeoning in Japan, but it wasn’t until the 1970s that those with physical disabilities, such as cerebral palsy, began to advocate for themselves more actively as tōjisha. For those in this movement, their disability is visible. They know where their discomfort comes from, why they are discriminated against, and in what ways they need society to change. Their movement had a clear sense of purpose: make society accommodate the needs of people with disabilities. Around the same time, during the 1970s, a second movement was started by those with mental health issues, such as addiction (particularly alcohol misuse) and schizophrenia. Their disabilities are not always visible. People in this second movement may not have always known they had a disability and, even after they identify their problems, they may remain uncertain about the nature of their disability. Unlike those with physical and visible disabilities, this second group of tōjisha were not always sure how to advocate for themselves as members of society. They didn’t know what they wanted and needed from society. This knowing required new kinds of self-knowledge.

As the story goes, tōjisha-kenkyū emerged in the Japanese fishing town of Urakawa in southern Hokkaido in the early 2000s. It began in the 1980s when locals who had been diagnosed with psychiatric disorders created a peer-support group in a run-down church, which was renamed ‘Bethel House’. The establishment of Bethel House (or just Bethel) was also aided by the maverick psychiatrist Toshiaki Kawamura and an innovative social worker named Ikuyoshi Mukaiyachi. From the start, Bethel embodied the experimental spirit that followed the ‘antipsychiatry’ movement in Japan, which proposed ideas for how psychiatry might be done differently, without relying only on diagnostic manuals and experts. But finding new methods was incredibly difficult and, in the early days of Bethel, both staff and members often struggled with a recurring problem: how is it possible to get beyond traditional psychiatric treatments when someone is still being tormented by their disabling symptoms? Tōjisha-kenkyū was born directly out of a desperate search for answers.

In the early 2000s, one of Bethel’s members with schizophrenia was struggling to understand who he was and why he acted the way he did. This struggle had become urgent after he had set his own home on fire in a fit of anger. In the aftermath, he was overwhelmed and desperate. At his wits’ end about how to help, Mukaiyachi asked him if perhaps he wanted to kenkyū (to ‘study’ or ‘research’) himself so he could understand his problems and find a better way to cope with his illness. Apparently, the term ‘kenkyū’ had an immediate appeal, and others at Bethel began to adopt it, too – especially those with serious mental health problems who were constantly urged to think about (and apologise) for who they were and how they behaved. Instead of being passive ‘patients’ who felt they needed to keep their heads down and be ashamed for acting differently, they could now become active ‘researchers’ of their own ailments. Tōjisha-kenkyū allowed these people to deny labels such as ‘victim’, ‘patient’ or ‘minority’, and to reclaim their agency.

Tōjisha-kenkyū is based on a simple idea. Humans have long shared their troubles so that others can empathise and offer wisdom about how to solve problems. Yet the experience of mental illness is often accompanied by an absence of collective sharing and problem-solving. Mental health issues are treated like shameful secrets that must be hidden, remain unspoken, and dealt with in private. This creates confused and lonely people, who can only be ‘saved’ by the top-down knowledge of expert psychiatrists. Tōjisha-kenkyū simply encourages people to ‘study’ their own problems, and to investigate patterns and solutions in the writing and testimonies of fellow tōjisha.

Self-reflection is at the heart of this practice. Tōjisha-kenkyū incorporates various forms of reflection developed in clinical methods, such as social skills training and cognitive behavioural therapy, but the reflections of a tōjisha don’t begin and end at the individual. Instead, self-reflection is always shared, becoming a form of knowledge that can be communally reflected upon and improved. At Bethel House, members found it liberating that they could define themselves as ‘producers’ of a new form of knowledge, just like the doctors and scientists who diagnosed and studied them in hospital wards. The experiential knowledge of Bethel members now forms the basis of an open and shared public domain of collective knowledge about mental health, one distributed through books, newspaper articles, documentaries and social media.

Tōjisha-kenkyū quickly caught on, making Bethel House a site of pilgrimage for those seeking alternatives to traditional psychiatry. Eventually, a café was opened, public lectures and events were held, and even merchandise (including T-shirts depicting members’ hallucinations) was sold to help support the project. Bethel won further fame when their ‘Hallucination and Delusion Grand Prix’ was aired on national television in Japan. At these events, people in Urakawa are invited to listen and laugh alongside Bethel members who share stories of their hallucinations and delusions. Afterwards, the audience votes to decide who should win first prize for the most hilarious or moving account. One previous winner told a story about a failed journey into the mountains to ride a UFO and ‘save the world’ (it failed because other Bethel members convinced him he needed a licence to ride a UFO, which he didn’t have). Another winner told a story about living in a public restroom at a train station for four days to respect the orders of an auditory hallucination. Tōjisha-kenkyū received further interest, in and outside Japan, when the American anthropologist Karen Nakamura wrote A Disability of the Soul: An Ethnography of Schizophrenia and Mental Illness in Contemporary Japan (2013), a detailed and moving account of life at Bethel House. "

-Japan's Radical Alternative to Psychiatric Diagnosis by Satsuki Ayaya and Junko Kitanaka

[jymwahuwu]

Capitano has me grrrr so ill—

So the heat has been bad and you’re capitanos arranged marriage darling so naturally you fall ill. When u go to a doctor they confirm that you’re expecting a baby and you’re terrified to tell your husband lmao. You have no idea how he’d react so you tell and/or bribe the doctor to just tell capitano for you while you do your best to avoid him as best you can the rest of the day :3

Love this!! The flustered and shy you and the affectionate Capitano… now besides Tsaritsa he has someone to pledge his undying loyalty…🥺💕

cw: yandere, arranged marriage, creampie, pregnancy, fem reader

The marriage to Capitano was arranged - a mission. Your relatives have already been looking for a lifelong spouse for you when you reach adulthood. In the eyes of these traditional people, nothing is more important than marriage and childbirth. What you didn't expect was. An armored warrior slowly walked into your village with gifts, solemnly knelt down on one knee and proposed to you, asking them to marry you to him. Your relatives are shuddering.

Of course, they accepted his gift.

Capitano sent enough supplies for the entire village and set up a heating system to help them survive the winter. In exchange, he got his bride.

You've never met him before, but he seems to know every strand of your hair, every smile and worry.

Fatui? That's too far away for you. You have no deep understanding of his power. Full of confusion, you married him. Your husband is upright, aboveboard, and strong… He is not out of control or impulsive. Sex also seemed like a routine. Always advance in a careful and firm rhythm, and stretch your thighs for several hours until your vagina is swollen and dripping. This is how every battle ends. His balls ravaged your quivering petals, his thick glans pushing into the tight depths. He kissed your lips and the back of your hands intently, his warm breath blowing behind your earlobes.

Maybe he just needed an heir. You wonder in despair. Marriage may be romantic, but it's not yours.

You have recently lost your appetite, vomited, and your breasts are swollen. You start to wonder if this could be…?

Capitano tells you that you need his permission to go out. He is not stuffy and conservative. This is a measure to ensure your safety. You are sick and you just want to see a doctor. That's okay, but you still can't go out. The doctor treats you at the manor.

The doctor's diagnosis and treatment results confirm your concerns - you are pregnant, and a little life is growing inside you.

"P-please tell my husband for me," you plead quietly, sniffing. You don't know how Capitano will react.

The doctor readily agreed. For the next half day, you tried your best to avoid your husband, including hiding in the greenhouse, watering the flowers and plants, searching for a magazine "you are interested in but can't remember the name" in the reading room, practicing cooking, and exploring new ways to play TCG. Just as you were hiding in a corner of the library reading pregnancy books, a rush of footsteps approached. It's his leather shoes.

"Are you pregnant?"

Looking at him as if you were caught in the headlights, you covered your cheek with your book and answered vaguely. "Uh…maybe…"

"Are you pregnant?"

Question again. Even your vision was shaken, your waist was lifted, and Capitano lifted you with one hand. The deep scar on his face has now been replaced by affection, and his chest is roaring with joy, bathing in it. You lowered your head and lifted your legs off the ground, panicking. "You, please calm down…"

"…Sorry, I got carried away." He carefully placed you back on the ground, as if you were fragile porcelain, and then he took the back of your hand and kissed it as usual. Those deep blue eyes exuded energy, like twinkling stars in the dark night.

[szczylpierdolony]

how do i tell my friend im sorry for nor writing anything in our essay today bc ive had one of my worst days in a while without coming across as a selfish pathetic dick

[libraford]

Here's what's going on in Ohio right now. Heavy stuff ahead.

First, I want to apologize for the misinformation in my original post. I am still learning about legislative processes. To correct: the changes to ODH and OMHAS in regards to gender therapy are not a bill, they are changes in regulations.

This is important because citizens CAN affect rule changes. There is an open commentary period where your submissions get counted and can affect how they write new regulations.

Disclaimer: I am not a lawyer, legal advocate, or medical professional. I'm just a dude who had to have it all explained to me.

The first one is Ohio Mental Health and Addiction Services. The rules proposed would make the already prohibitive process of gender transition even harder. In order to diagnose and treat gender dysphoria, a hospital needs to have a board certified psychologist per patient, a board certified endocrinologist familiar with the age group being diagnosed per patient, and a medical ethicist overseeing the hospital's plan for transition. 'Board certified' does not guarantee that the specialist is trans-friendly. It must include a detransition plan. Hospitals would have to report compliance annually. The professionals must have a contractual relationship with the patient, but do not need to offer in-person care. (In this instance, I'll get to that in the next rule change.)

This rule also deems it impermissible to prescribe gender transition care (this includes hormones, puberty blockers, or drugs) for anyone under the age of 21 without the approval of the professionals mentioned and 6 months of therapy.

There is an exception for intersex people, who may have their sex assigned to them without their consent.

The open comment period for this ends January 19 at 5pm.

Send an email to MH-SOT-rules@mha.ohio.gov with the subject title: "Comments on Gender Transition Care Rules."

The second one is Ohio Department of Health and it repeats a lot of the same as the first one. However, the focus is more on the regulation of doctors and paperwork. Anyone seeking transition will be put into a registry with their name redacted, but demographics like age, agab, specific diagnosis (difficult to achieve with the new regulations mentioned above), and any medications (not just related to gender transition, but any medications at all). Any cessation of care must be reported within 30 days.

This is a lot of paperwork and can overburden hospitals.

That 30 days cessation is important because if a person transfers doctors or if a clinic closes and the paperwork isn't filed, it may count as a 'detransition' when tallying demographics, even if that is not the case.

But what's curious is that the ODH regulations DO require in-person care. The rules are contradictory and vague.

The comment period for this ends Feb 5th.

Send a comment through the ODH website

Here are some important things that were mentioned at the meeting:

This is a good time to be personal with your statements. If this would disrupt your life in any way, please say so. "I fear that" "I believe this" "I worry that"- these are great ways to start your comment. An example one person gave is "I worry that this change in regulations would force me and my daughter to move out of state.'

With that being said, anything that you send to these sites will be public record, so be cautious about what you reveal about yourself in your comment.

If you are in need of help, please reach out to one of these resources:

Trans Ohio Emergency Fund Resource Page

Kaleidoscope Youth Center

If you are in need of legal advice on how to navigate all this, please call

888-LGBT-LAW

This is not everything. There is unfortunately more because Ohio decided to break a record this month with anti-trans motions. But today I'm focusing on things that we can take action on.

[reasonsforhope]

Life is hard for neurodivergent people in Peru. Now a grassroots uprising of people with bipolar disorder, ADHD and autism – organised through picnics in the park – is pushing for change at the heart of government.

On a bright summer afternoon in Lima, the capital of Peru, Carolina Díaz Pimentel takes some red and green tape out of her backpack. She’s in a park waiting for people to arrive at a picnic she and her friends are hosting. Guests know that they don’t have to be on time, don’t have to make eye contact, and can leave at any time if they feel overwhelmed. No one will question them.

“We want everyone to feel comfortable. At least this afternoon we want to take a break from the rules that are imposed on neurodivergent people every day to fit in,” says Díaz Pimentel, a journalist and a co-founder of the Peruvian Neurodivergent Coalition (CNP), who is herself autistic and has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

Hence the coloured tapes. Each attendee will choose one to express their “social battery”. If they choose the green tape, it’s because they want to participate in the activities. Red signals they prefer not to be approached. Everyone wants company, that’s why they are here, but in different ways. And that’s OK. People start to arrive. Several choose red.

CNP is a social initiative that first kicked off in March 2023. It is the alliance of five neurodivergent women who were already making waves by posting openly about their conditions on social media, but who longed to make real-world change. “I used to see this kind of gathering in countries like Mexico and Argentina and was sad to be so far away, until I saw the announcement of a picnic in Peru. Before joining the coalition, I didn’t really relate to anyone. I had good friends, people that care about me, but I knew I wasn’t like them,” says Mayra Orellano, another of the directors, an interior designer with borderline personality disorder (BPD).

Today [in March 2024] is the coalition’s fifth gathering. A picnic may not sound like fertile ground for a burgeoning social movement, but behind the bags of cookies and crisps, that is what CNP is doing – campaigning for the rights of neurodivergent Peruvians to be understood and accepted, and to live free from stigma and abuse.

The birth of the neurodiversity movement

The concept of neurodiversity has been around for almost 30 years after first being coined in 1997 in an undergraduate thesis by Judy Singer. Singer, an Australian who is now an eminent sociologist, argued that conditions such as autism, dyslexia and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) are all simply part of the myriad ways in which human brains are wired. It proposed a new way to think about human difference and provided a name for a burgeoning movement. In Peru, however, it remains a concept that few have heard of.

“Neurodiversity is not a medical diagnosis, it’s a political movement that brings us together to defend our rights,” says Díaz Pimentel. When she first started posting about her bipolar disorder on social media in 2017, it was taboo: very few talked about their diagnosis in public. Bipolar disorder remains a stigmatised condition in Peru...

Diaz Pimentel’s commitment is stronger than prejudice, she says. Two years ago, when she received her autism diagnosis, she posted a photo of herself holding a rainbow cake with the words ‘Congrats on the autism’ spelled out in white icing. She wanted to celebrate with her community because she considered it a rebirth: at the age of 29, some of the puzzles of her childhood finally made sense...

From picnics to influencing policy

Neurodivergence is a huge umbrella that describes people with very different conditions. In Peru, this causes confusion and a lack of accurate data. Even in the case of autism, the best recognised of the neurodivergent conditions, the National Registry of Citizens with Disabilities lists some 15,000 people on the spectrum. But according to international statistics on the worldwide prevalence of autism, there are likely more than 200,000 people with the condition in the country. 

María Coronel, the psychologist in charge of the ministry of health’s child and adolescent mental health department, says that clarifying this data is one of the institution’s priorities. She acknowledges that initiatives such as CNP’s can help educate people: “These organisations add to our efforts to detect people on the autistic spectrum and give them the help they need. They have a great ability to reach others because they are telling their own experiences.”

Although CNP has only existed for a year, the group is already influencing government policy. Two congressmen have asked for members’ feedback on bills to protect the rights of autistic people. The state agency in charge of integrating people with disabilities into society consulted them on the appropriate terms with which to refer to neurodevelopmental conditions. And the ombudsman’s office made a video with them to warn about gender bias in autism early detection. (In Peru, 81% of people receiving treatment are male.) ...

Creating a more sensitive society

The CNP community says its work has changed their own lives, but Díaz Pimentel recognises that it isn’t enough. Some experts agree – that the problems are as much structural as they are societal. “In Peru we have a gap in specialised human resources. We need more psychiatrists and neuro-paediatricians. We need more young people to choose these careers,” says Coronel...

[Natalie] Espinoza is also a CNP founder and the only founder who is a mother. She has a five-year-old autistic daughter. Finding a pre-school that would accept her was very difficult. Espinoza is familiar with that kind of rejection. At a former job, she was fired when they found out she has bipolar. She had always performed well, she says, but she was told that a person “on that kind of medication” could not work with them.

“When I found out that my daughter was autistic, there was no mourning or denial, just a desire to hug her tightly because I felt very afraid of what society might do to her. I would like her to grow up in a more sensitive place,” says Espinoza. Dedicating time to the coalition’s work is her way of contributing to that change. Currently its communications reach more than 12,000 people and it has 15 WhatsApp groups. Messages whizzing back and forth help their community in everything from getting diagnoses to finding places to sleep in the event of being evicted from their homes.

So what does the coalition want next? “We want it all,” says Lú Herrera, a lawyer with BPD and the fifth co-founder. They would love to create, for example, a “neurodivergent house”, a place where they can offer shelter to victims of violence, run educational workshops, organise neurodiverse entrepreneurship fairs and provide legal advice on inclusion rights.  “Everything we already do but in a place of our own. 

“You know what else we want to do in that house?” asks Herrera as if reminding herself. “We want to have mindfulness sessions, dance lessons, pottery classes. Activities that will ground us. We neurodivergents struggle so much every day that it would be nice to have a place to rest.”

For now, the picnics are opportunities to recharge, ready for the next conversation-shifting step.

-via Positive.News, March 13, 2024

[she-is-ovarit]

Wow.

"This tendency to misdiagnose victims was at the heart of a controversy that arose in the mid-1980s when the diagnostic manual of the American Psychiatric Association came up for revision. A group of male psychiatrists proposed that "masochistic personality disorder" be added to the canon. This hypothetical diagnosis applied to any person who "remains in relationships in which others exploit, abuse, or take advantage of him or her, despite opportunities to alter the situation." A number of women's groups were outraged and a heated public debate ensued. Women insisted on opening up the process of writing diagnostic canon, which had been the preserve of a small group of men, and for the first time took place in the naming of psychological reality.

I was one of the participants in this process. What struck me most at the time was how little rational argument seemed to matter. The women's representatives came to the discussion prepared with carefully reasoned, extensively documented position papers, which argued that the proposed diagnosis concept had little scientific foundation, ignored recent advances in understanding the psychology of victimization, and was socially regressive and discriminatory in impact, since it would be used to stigmatized disempowered people. The men of the psychiatric establishment persisted in bland denial. They admitted freely that they were ignorant of the extensive literature of the past decade on psychological trauma, but they did not see why it should concern them. One member of the Board of Trustees of the American Psychiatric Association felt the discussion of battered women was "irrelevant". Another stated simply, "I never see victims".

In the end, because of the outcry from organized women's groups and the widespread publicity engendered by the controversy, some sort of compromise became expedient. The name of the proposed entity was changed to "self-defeating personality disorder." The criteria for the diagnosis were changed, so that the label could not be applied to people who were known to be physically, sexually, or psychologically abused. Most important, the disorder was included not in the main body of the text but in an appendix. It was regulated to apocryphal status within the canon, where it languishes to this day."

Judith L. Herman, M.D., Trauma and Recovery.

[rdr2gifs]

Each time Arthur has helped someone without expecting payment (that I can remember) because I’ve seen some weird takes circling around about how Arthur only cares about money/doesn’t help people (yet again)

He helped a city photographer take pictures and acted as his protector because he liked him

He helped a doctor retrieve a stolen wagon full of medicine, he wasn’t even asked to do so, he did it out of his own good will

He wanted to make an old cranky man happy and proposed finding his lost trinkets for him

He helped Deborah MacGuiness find dinosaur bones out of curiosity. He didn’t receive any financial reward for it. Just a few trinkets and he was satisfied

He risked his life for Marko Dragic’s experiments (his main motivation in this mission was again, curiosity)

He rescued a boy being held hostage by the gunsmith in Rhodes

He rescued people from being trafficked and gave them a large sum of money (he could’ve kept it for himself) for a better life

He helped Mr. White and Mr. Black gain freedom and even helped them again after they got themselves into trouble

He rescued Charles Chatenay on at least 3 different occasions

He instantly hurried to retrieve Sister Calderon’s cross even though he has never met her before

In his first encounter with Marjorie and Bertram, he helps to calm Bertram down and is understanding even though Bertram gave him trouble. He even puts the bartender in his place after he speaks about Bertram in a degrading manner

He agreed to help a man get rid of nigh folk occupying his property and after he payed him with only a rat pelt, Arthur didn’t get angry and still asked him if he’d be really fine on his own after knowing he wouldn’t be able to pay

He let a homeless man hug him and listened to what he has to say

He helped to save Jamie from becoming a cult member and stopped him from taking his life

He helped a boy look for his lost dog

He saved an injured man’s life after driving him to a doctor

He helped a woman get rid of a body after she claimed she had to kill the man in self-defence

He donated to the poor and even to build a shelter for war-veterans

He taught Charlotte how to survive on her own

He tried to save a crazed village out of his own good will

He helped a war veteran retrieve his prosthetic leg and helped him hunt

He helped a man look for his lost friend in the snowy mountains

He helped Rain’s Fall retrieve sacred items important to his people

He helped to retrieve stolen medical supplies for the Wapiti tripe

He saved Captain Monroe’s life after hearing he was in danger

He helped Beau and Penelope escape from their terrible families

He has saved many hunters from getting mauled, given many ladies a ride home, saved people from dying of poisoning, helped gather herbs, helped a lost New Yorker find his way to the town, helped save many people’s lives (lady being held hostage in her own house in Lemoyne, folk getting tortured by The Murfees or Lemoyne Raiders etc.)

Let’s not forget the fact that Arthur is a provider for over 20 people. He cannot be running around and risking his life for free for everyone he meets. He needs money. Even so, he has helped all the people above for no reward and out of his own free will. When I see someone say that Arthur is only motivated by money and never helps people otherwise, I just instantly assume they stormed through the story and didn’t pay any attention. The encounters listed above make up the majority of chance encounters/side quests and in almost all of them he is helping people. 80% of these are also pre-diagnosis.

He has a hard time accepting any compliments or gratitude for his good deeds and always downplays himself. Even in the main story he is never thinking about himself and he always puts others first.

“You did not ask for anything, you only gave”

The encounters where he does require payment pale in comparison to those in which he doesn’t, and even so they are very justified as they are often dangerous, time consuming or straight up ridiculous. It’s weird to assume Arthur only helps people for money when he doesn’t want to deliver love letters, interview dangerous people and sneak into heavily guarded properties for free.

[doberbutts]

Is the high level of inbreeding in dobes more because "undesirable" traits are common so those dogs get weeded out (whether actual bad things or just not fitting the breed spec), a small number of breeders having the monopoly, or because they are all related anyway so there's no way of avoiding it without an outcross program? Is something like the Doberman Preservation ​Project a realistic future for the breed?

The doberman breed is in the current shape its in due to multiple genetic bottlenecks- some simple stupid breeding decisions and others due to active war zones and the consequences of wars- paired with people who are stubbornly refusing to even try to make it better because they have convinced themselves that what they're doing is right.

Fenris is my lowest COI dobe to date [23% iirc] and while not the lowest I've seen in the breed [19%], still a huge improvement over to 50-60% breed average. But people have argued again and again that lowering COI means making breeding decisions that produce inferior dogs, and so many refuse to even consider it as a possibility.

(For non-dog people, COI is coefficient of inbreeding, and it is a look at the numbers behind how inbred a population is. You want as low of a number as possible. 25% is equal to immediate siblings. Ideally we'd want single digit numbers, with anything over 10% being a major problem to fix. To compare, my chihuahuas are something like 6% (Fae) and 0.02% (Tater). Sushi is a direct line breeding aunt-to-nephew so she's up in the 40s.)

(It doesn't necessarily mean a dog is immune to genetic predisposition to bad health, as evidenced by Tater's CM diagnosis, however it does seem to correlate directly with longevity and likelihood of developing these problems, meaning Tater unfortunately just lost the genetic lottery)

In other words, it is certainly possible to reduce the COI of the breed by HALF with smart breeding decisions, and people are plugging their ears going LA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU because it means actually going out and looking past the popular sires and taking a chance on a dog that might not be your exact type but will still improve the next generation. This is not just a show line problem because I spend the majority of my time with working line dobes and working dobe people and this is an incredibly annoying problem there too. Fenris himself has popular sires in his pedigree, both the show half and the working half, so it is demonstratably very difficult to avoid.

I do think a well executed outcross project is needed, however... the problem I have is that the current proposed projects all suck. There's not a lot of direction outside of throwing things into the pot and seeing what sticks, and a lot of the resulting dogs quite frankly aren't what doberman people would be looking for anyway. Farm collies? Bulldogs? Bullies? Carolina dogs? Border collies? Pyrs? Why??? None of these are going to make a dog that has the temperament that draws people to this breed.

There are. A bunch of breeders who are waiting for an outcross project that actually makes sense. They've even posted in various outcrops groups that they would support a project if it had certain specifications. Many have said, get yourself a nice female and title her out in a bite sport and do all the doberman health testing even if she's not a doberman and we'd be interested in contributing semen. The response almost invariably has been "but I don't want a protective dog". Then what are you doing in a DOBERMAN project??? So of course the chief complaint is that most of these projects are not looking to make dobermans, they're looking to make their own breed and just have a doberman paint job. Well, sorry, but most involved doberman people want a DOBERMAN, not just a dog that looks like one. This is the only AKC recognized breed with the sole function of personal protection. They are protective dogs. Either accept that, or get interested in a different breed.

I have heard increasingly concerning things regarding the temperament of the doberman diversity project dogs, which does not surprise me unfortunately as none of these dogs are in any way sourced from dogs with verifiable correct temperament. What do you get when you cross a Craigslist Corso with a Craigslist doberman? Well the first generation might be okay for people who want pets but apparently the ones that have worked in protection are awful at it. Same with the malinois crosses- of course, you took a lukewarm malinois and bred it to a z-list doberman and you're surprised that you got a bunch of lukewarm at best pet dogs.

I think the only project I solidly am somewhat interested in is the bandog cross, and that cross works just fine but then of course it does because in that country, bandogs are exclusively military, police, and security dogs, and she bred it to a igp3 doberman. Unfortunately the doberman died before his 10th birthday, so now we're all waiting to see what happens with his progeny.

[queeranarchism]

[the cover of A consensus handbook by Seeds for Change, featuring the title in Orange lettering followed by an color drawing of 11 people working on the maintenance of a house]

I'm going to share this as a separate post for those that missed the ask: A consensus handbook by Seeds for Change https://seedsforchange.org.uk/handbook is a free and very handy guide to how to take decisions as a group without leaders or hierarchies. I'm going to drop the chapters here to show off just how much useful stuff it has. If you work with consensus, there's almost certainly a problem in here that you recognize and wish you had some answers to!

1: Making decisions by consensus What’s wrong with the democracy we’ve got? - Why use consensus? How does consensus work? - The consensus process - Key skills and values for consensus 2: Facilitating consensus The role of meetings in group work - What is facilitation? - Facilitating a meeting – Making meetings accessible - Taking minutes 3: Facilitating consensus in large groups Meeting the conditions for consensus in large groups - Processes for large groups 4: Facilitating consensus in virtual meetings Why have virtual meetings? - The tools for the job - Challenges of facilitating virtual meetings - A consensus process for virtual meetings 5: Quick consensus decision making Preparing for quick consensus - How it works 6: Facilitation techniques and activities Starting the meeting - Regulating the flow of the meeting - Encouraging involvement - Techniques for problem solving and tackling difficult issues - Prioritisation techniques - Activities for re-energising - Evaluating meetings 7: Troubleshooting in your meetings Our meetings take a long time - Time pressure - Our meetings lack focus - Our group is large and we don’t enjoy meetings - We’re stuck and can’t reach a decision - Too many ideas - ‘Steamroller’ proposals - How can we deal with disruptive behaviour? - What to do when someone blocks - Our group is biased towards the status quo 8: Bridging the gap between theory and practice Conflict and consensus - The life cycle of a conflict - Ways of dealing with conflict - Techniques for inviting collaboration Power dynamics - Step one: What are our feelings about power dynamics? - Step two: Diagnosis – what is actually going on - in your group? - Step three: Where do your power imbalances come from? - Step four: Work out some ways to change your power dynamics Other common issues - External pressures - Open groups with changing membership - What if you’re the only person who wants the group to change? 9: Consensus in wider society So how might it work? - Challenges, questions and tensions - How do we get there? - A final thought

[transmutationisms]

I have always been wary of the psychiatric industry, but its only very recently that i started to read anti-psychiatric works. Your blog is the first time i saw that the "chemical imbalances causing mental illness" is a myth, and honestly its something im having a hard time wrapping my head around.

Is it that mood regulation struggles, labelled as a mental illnesses, has more to do with outside factors instead of the person "just being that way"? Is it therefore unlikely for someone to have struggles with mood regulation if they cant identify any external causes that would cause them to be, for example, extremely agoraphobic or to have anger management issues? Im asking this for myself mainly, cause i always had intense agoraphobia no matter how i often go outside my home (in fact it was worse when i was a teen and i was outside the house in even more back then). I cant think of any reason for me to be like this than chemical imbalances in my brain.

the specific 'chemical imbalance' myth i was talking about in this post is the idea that depression is caused by low serotonin, and that therefore SSRIs—serotonin re-uptake inhibitors, ie drugs that cause a higher level of serotonin in the brain—ought to cure or at least ameliorate depression. this conjecture is belied by the fact that SSRIs don't, at a population level, reliably perform better than placebo.

although a neurobiological cause of 'mental illness' has long been the holy grail of psychiatry, the serotonin imbalance myth is far from the only hypothesis that psychiatrists and neuroscientists have proposed. so, a critique of the serotonin myth is not synonymous with, or generalisable to, a critique of every neurobiological mechanism purported to explain psychiatric diagnoses. you may be interested to know, though, that genomics and neuroscience have not identified a biological cause of any psychiatric diagnosis (p. 851).

all human experiences are biologically instantiated, including in the brain and wider nervous system. we are embodied beings. however, it is a leap to assume that such instantiation is automatically equivalent to a causal explanation or disease etiology. in other words, to deny that psychiatric diagnoses are known to be biologically caused does not mean we deny that thoughts and thought patterns express in the physical matter of neuroanatomy. this is a major philosophical sticking point to keep in mind whenever you're looking at something like, eg, a study that purports to show 'brain differences' in those assigned a certain psychiatric diagnosis. another thing to consider is whether these papers are plagued with methodological issues or financial conflicts of interest.

i can't possibly tell you why you exhibit agoraphobia. however, when i talk about social, economic, and environmental factors that may contribute to the patterns of behaviour labelled as 'mental illness', i'm talking about much more than the individual choice to leave your house. since phobias are 'anxiety disorders', i might start by probing into questions like: is the world you live in safe? do you perceive it as safe? do you or your community face existential threats that may confront you more obviously when you go outside? are you nervous around other people, and if so, might that be connected to fears (well-founded or not) about interpersonal violence and harm? do you think any of these anxieties may be connected to the hostility and inaccessible design of the social environment and economic conditions?

human behaviour and thought varies. some of those variations may be totally benign; others may be helpful or harmful to the person living with them. it would be weird if every single one of the 8 billion people on earth experienced precisely the same amount of anxiety about any situation, no? all of this is to say: yeah, it's entirely possible you have been, for one reason or another (genetic, neuroanatomical, social, &c) predisposed to experience high, even debilitating levels of anxiety when leaving your home. most human characteristics develop from a tangle of social, environmental, material causes—ie, from a combination of 'nature' and 'nurture'. what doesn't follow, though, is the claim that there is therefore a discrete, 'diseased' element of your brain or brain functioning that can simply be cured or eliminated through psychiatric intervention.

it is a critical point of anti-psychiatry to challenge psychiatric and neuroscientific claims to neurobiological determinism where psychiatric diagnoses are concerned. this is for many reasons, including: a) that these claims have not been demonstrated to actually be true [see above]; b) that they rob pathologised people of agency and self-determination [see: you're too sick to know you're sick, and the doctor will fix you now]; c) that they are often pushed by pharmaceutical companies with financial interests, or grant-funded researchers with... financial interests; d) that they are politically seductive in various eugenic, hereditarian discourses that seek to eliminate the biologically 'unfit' element from society.

[vettelsvee]

ONE CALL AWAY SERIES | Oscar Piastri

f1 masterlist | ask me anything or let's talk! driver x oc version available on wattpad on august 30th

oscar piastri x booktoker and librarian!reader | based on 2023

for more information to the reader: ❥ in this series, oscar and reader will communicate mainly via email (except when they get to know each other but you'll see) ❥ it contains secret identity and friends to lovers tropes. ❥ some parts might include sensitive content. pay attention to trigger warnings at the beginning of each part. ❥ english is not my first language so apologies for any mistakes that you can read here!

started: AUGUST 28TH 2024 currently status: on going | last updated: august 28th masterlist under the cut !

taglist: [feel free to tell me so i can tag you and you don't miss anything!]

a/n: done with posting series, finally about to start updating them let's goooooo. i'll be waiting for your anons and feedback as well :) also look at what crossover we'll have :))

© VETTELSVEE (2024). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

If there was one thing that defined Y/N Y/L/N's life, it was its surrealism.

The girl never had the chance to live a perfect life, and she didn't even know what that was. At just a few months old, she had to move to Spain due to the sudden death of her mother, and a few years later, she ended up returning to Austria, her birth country, when her father's health began to deteriorate quickly due to the cancer diagnosis he got during Christmas 2008. While other children her age were being raised by their parents or grandparents, the only role models she knew were her older sister, Diana, and her uncles, who took her in after Bernhard Y/L/N passed away. As if that weren't enough, over the years, the declining reputation and controversies surrounding both her older sisters made her the target of constant insults and being ridiculed, which only intensified when she tried to remain unnoticed.

For this reason, when Vivian Huber, the only person who had always been there for her and whom she considered much more than a best friend, completely disappeared from her life without any explanation or farewell, Y/N began to question more than just whether she was a good person, if everyone she had come into contact with had only done so to take advantage of her and her family's position.

Not knowing what to do with her life after a year of her mental health deteriorating, focusing solely on spending time with family, working at a local bookstore, recording content for her TikTok account, and secretly running fan accounts and writing fanfictions, Y/N, knowing she had nothing to lose, eventually accepted her sister and brother-in-law's proposal to accompany them to New York for the filming of History, the documentary about their 15 years in Formula 1.

What Y/N Y/L/N didn't know was that starting a friendship via email with a stranger could, rather than help her overcome her problems, lead her into many more, especially when at the same time started to get closer to one of the 2023 Formula 1 rookies, Oscar Piastri.

[pedrospatch]

to hell and back l one

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l main masterlist l next chapter

summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI. canon violence, canon language, brief mentions of slavers, brutality, torture, assault, guns, reader is an archer, mentions of hunting, animal death, injured/unconscious Joel, very minor mentions of blood, age gap (reader is 30, Joel is 56) very brief mention of scars, reader does not/cannot speak at times, a lot of internal dialogue from reader, at one point reader does try to speak to Joel but she is unable. *please be advised that no specific diagnosis is used or will be mentioned, i’m writing the series with the idea that reader herself cannot fully comprehend her inability to speak at times. basically the gist of it is we have a very traumatized person who does not realize just how traumatized she is.

word count: 8.2k (good lord I am so sorry)

a/n: not a whole lot to say except for that this is...different. at least i think it is, i could be wrong lmao. this is by far one of the most challenging things i have ever decided to write, but hopefully it turned out okay

California l Fall, 2023

You’d been on the run since dawn.

It was several hours later now and nightfall was approaching—and it was approaching a hell of a lot fucking faster than you could have even anticipated. The darkness was quickly closing in, falling around you like a velvet black curtain. However, stumbling around blindly in the dark was currently the very least of your worries. 

Your feet were raw, both completely blistered and bleeding through your socks inside of your worn out, muddied white canvas sneakers. Your sore, aching legs screamed out for mercy and your knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle out from underneath the weight of your body at any given moment. 

In the week and a half leading up to your escape from captivity, you’d been deprived of both food and water—it had been your punishment for closing your eyes and turning your head away after you’d been instructed by the slavers to watch their brutal assault of the young teenaged girl that you had been sharing a cage with. She’d been unable to keep up with her work duties, and they had decided to make an example out of her.

Despite still having been forced to witness the horrendous, unspeakable things they’d done to that poor girl, your initial resistance resulted in you being beaten and then starved for several days. Occasionally, one of the late night guards would try and bribe you, offering a small piece of jerky or a couple of stale crackers in exchange for a blowjob. At first, you told him you’d rather cut your own tongue out with a rusty blade than suck his dick, but when he proposed the disgusting, vile trade again just a couple of nights later, you’d accepted it—because him pulling you out of that fucking cage after hours and removing the tight shackles from your wrists when no one else was around would give you the chance to finally make a run for it.

You swung yourself around the nearest redwood tree, slumping back against its thick, wide trunk. You covered your mouth with your two hands in an attempt to silence the sound of your heavy panting. 

Besides being in pain, malnourished and severely dehydrated, the exhaustion was starting to set in too. The adrenaline pumping through your veins had brought you this far, but exactly how much farther could it take you? How much longer could it possibly keep you going before your tired body decided to give up and give out?

Somewhere behind you, you could hear the men calling out cheerfully.

One sang out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Come out and plaaaaay,” a second taunted.

The third shouted, “We’re gonna get you!”

Their giddiness made you want to vomit. If your stomach hadn’t been empty, you would have.

Those sick, twisted fucks weren’t letting up. 

They’d been on your heels for hours.

The large group of slavers in California were over two hundred strong and had dozens of prisoners chained up in their human cages—they had more than enough people to force into labor. There was no need for them to waste their time and efforts going after you, but after spending the last eight months witnessing firsthand how these sadistic bastards operated, it occurred to you that their desire to recapture you wasn’t out of a need for labor. It was for their entertainment. 

They were hunting you down for sport.

This was their idea of fun.

“Fuck,” you whispered underneath your breath, your hands falling down to your sides.

Something had to give.

Your legs, your body, your will to live.

Perhaps all of the above.

You couldn’t keep on running for much longer.

And even if you could, where the hell were you supposed to go? How were you supposed to get there?

You had no food, no water, and no weapon.

Just the torn, tattered clothes on your back.

You were defenseless against whatever else was out there and you couldn’t see yourself surviving longer than a couple of days at most.

There was a part of you that wanted to give up and surrender. If you could be absolutely certain that they would shoot you dead on the spot, you would actually consider it and step out from behind the tree—hell, you would happily let them put a bullet between your eyes and put you out of your misery once and for all. But they wouldn’t be so generous. You knew they would have their way with you here in the middle of this forest and only after they were done would they take you back to their settlement where they’d put you right back in shackles so the real torture could begin. Just like that teenaged girl, the slavers would make an example out of you so that nobody else in their right mind would even think about running away. 

They would be sure to make your death as slow and as agonizing as possible.  

No. If you were going to die, then you were going to die. But fucking not like that.

Hearing them draw closer towards where you’d been hiding, you pushed yourself away from the redwood and willed yourself to keep on going.

Wyoming l Fall 2024

Your eyes softly flutter open.

Bright, early morning sunlight filters in through the ripped, white lace curtains that hang over the small, square shaped window right above your head. 

Blinking the sleep away, you prop yourself up slightly on your elbows and take a glance around at your surroundings. The old, abandoned cabin that you’d stumbled across just a couple of days ago is tiny, cramped, and crumbling. It also reeks—it smells damp, musty, and earthy, like rotting wood. But beggars can’t be choosers and you are certainly in no position to be a chooser right now. It’s not what you consider to be ideal, but it’s four walls and a roof, which is more than anyone can ask for. It’s sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, an old wood burning stove you had been too afraid to light because you didn’t want to risk setting the place on fire, and there’s even a small, twin sized bed for you to sleep on. Well, perhaps calling it a bed was a tad bit too generous. It’s really just a mattress sitting on four large concrete blocks. It’s rough, dirty, and torn with rusted springs and bits of fluff sticking out from every corner. Still, it sure as fuck beat the hell out of sleeping outside in the dirt and using a rock as a pillow.

Besides the luxury of having something close to a proper roof to sleep under, there’s also a lake just two and a half miles north of the cabin where you had been able to fill your canteen with fresh water. Not to mention, you’d also been able to bathe and wash your clothes for the first time in a couple of weeks. You had been on your own for about a year now, and this was the luckiest you’ve gotten in terms of finding a decent place to stay.

Whether or not it’s safe, it was still too early to tell. 

Sure, you were out somewhere in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and hadn’t seen a single soul, living or dead, in a couple of months now. But that still didn’t mean that running into the infected or other people wasn’t a possibility. Letting your guard down was risky. Too risky. 

You swing your legs over the side of the mattress and sit up, slipping on your pair of warm, wool socks before tugging on your boots—you’d found them over the summer and even though they had been about one size too small for you, you’d managed to break them in since then and the supple brown leather now molds almost perfectly to your feet. You stand up and lift your arms up above your head while simultaneously twisting your stiff, sore back in a painful, but much needed stretch. You’re only just a couple of months shy of turning thirty years old, but lately, your bones snap, crackle and pop with each and every movement, making you feel twice your actual age. 

The thought of it makes you snort in amusement. You should be so lucky to stay alive long enough to see the age of sixty. Hell, you’re still unable to fathom how you’d even made it this close to seeing thirty.

Dropping your arms back down to your sides, you make your way over to your khaki colored pack and pull out your aluminum canteen from one of the side pockets. You twist off the cap and gulp back a long, cool drink of water, hoping to get rid of the dryness in your mouth and the cracks in your chapped lips. As soon as the liquid makes it all the way down to the pit of your stomach, the hollow, muscular organ grumbles loudly, demanding food. You’d had some decent luck while out hunting the previous morning, capturing two wild rabbits—you had eagerly skinned, cleaned and cooked them both, devouring one right after the other so fast that it had nearly made you sick. It had been a pretty decent meal, but not nearly enough to completely satisfy your ravenous hunger. Prior to finding the cabin and settling in, you had been living off of a couple handfuls of nuts and berries for three days while on the move. You were still fucking starving and all you could do was pray that you’d find more rabbits today. 

Maybe you’d get even luckier and spot a pheasant. It was their season, after all. 

You drink some more water and set your canteen aside. You’d planned to return to the lake later in the afternoon to refill it as well as to have another bath. You pull on your faded, black denim jacket over your hoodie and pick up the wooden bow and brown leather quiver of arrows sitting beside your pack. You’d found the weapon in some hunting shop back in Utah that had already been picked clean to the bone over the last couple of decades. However, no one had even bothered with taking the bow. It hadn’t really surprised you, though. In the post outbreak world, a bow and arrow would do absolutely nothing to protect against the infected runners and stalkers—and it would do much less to protect against clickers unless your aim was flawless.

Still, a bow was useful in its own right. 

It was perfect for hunting game. It was silent, keeping you and your location concealed from potential passersby at all times. Most importantly, you could reuse your arrows so long as you were careful and didn’t break them while removing them from your kills—and in the event that you did happen to snap an arrow, all you had to do was salvage what you could from the damaged projectile and make a new one. Simple as that. 

Your father had taught you how before he’d died.

“Why bother with a bow? What about a gun?” you had asked him. 

“Might not always be able to get your hands on a gun,” he’d replied as he sharpened an edge of the small, thumb sized rock in his hand. “Or bullets. It doesn’t hurt to have alternatives in the event that you can’t get your hands on either of those things, kiddo.” Despite being in your mid twenties at the time, he’d still always call you kiddo. “Always have a backup weapon, alright?”

He’d been wise to give you that advice.

You did have a firearm, a colt pistol that you hardly have ammunition for. There were ten rounds left in the clip and with no luck in finding any more in the last couple of months, you’d decided to preserve them, saving what little bullets you had left for a real emergency. You kept the gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans at all times, along with the sharp switchblade that you used to gut and skin game. As far as weapons go, you sure as hell could’ve been a lot worse off. But if you happened to stumble upon more ammunition for your gun, you certainly wouldn’t complain about it. 

Slinging your bow and the quiver of arrows over your shoulder, you grab the dark gray foraging bag that you used to collect and carry your kills in and leave the cabin, feeling somewhat confident enough to leave the remainder of your belongings behind instead of hauling them all along with you like you had the morning before. It wasn’t that you feared someone would come along and steal them. There wasn’t really anything for anyone to steal, anyway. Rather, you’d gotten so damn used to the instability and the constant moving around—you never stayed in one place for too long and were always prepared to run. But today, you decide to leave your things in the cabin, feeling certain that you would return in just a couple of hours. 

You step out onto the creaking, three step porch that’s so old it buckles slightly under your weight and a gentle breeze nips at your cheeks and nose. It’s the middle of autumn in Wyoming and the air outside is fresh, cool and crisp. Winter was looming right around the corner like a dark shadow, and although you’d somehow managed to make it through the previous year’s brutal snow season, that didn’t do much to stop you from being nervous about the one that was to come. If all went according to your plan, you’d be holing yourself up in that shoddy little cabin until the worst of winter was over and then you would move along.

To where?

You didn’t have the slightest fucking clue. 

You make a short trek about two miles south, going in the opposite direction of the lake and finding yourself closer to the thick forest trees that surrounded the base of the mountain range out in the distance instead. There’s a dried, grassy clearing just feet from the entrance of the forest—finding a single, decently sized boulder in the middle of the wide, open space, you decide that behind it is the perfect spot for you to set up and hope for the best. Carefully setting your things down on the ground, you pull out a pair of old, cracked binoculars from your bag. You lean your body over the smooth, round top of the rock and lift them up to your face, peeking through the lenses. You hope to spot something right away because it sure would be fucking nice to eat something sooner rather than later. Otherwise you might just start gnawing at your own arm. 

Diligently, you scan your surroundings for any and all signs of wildlife. 

That’s when you see it, standing near the edge of the woods.

You gasp softly as your sights fall upon the deer. 

Pulling your face away from your binoculars, you blink furiously before taking another look just to be sure that your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you. It’s not a hallucination. It’s a white tailed deer, a female, and from the look of her, she has to be at least about a hundred pounds. At least.

You try to not get too far ahead of yourself, but it’s far too late. The thought of finding some herbs and making a hot, venison stew for supper makes your mouth water. The rest of the meat could be dried out and made into a batch of jerky that could feed you for months. Months.

Then, you suddenly remember you’ve never even attempted to bring down an animal of that size before and you’re slapped back into reality.

You think about your father, who would bring home a deer every weekend after going on his hunting trips with some of his old college buddies. “You want to aim for the heart or the lungs,” he’d say as you and your siblings would watch him dress the carcass, much to your mother’s chagrin. “Look between the shoulder blade and the last rib,” he would tell you and your brothers. You’d also had an older sister, but she had always been incredibly squeamish and had a soul that was much too sweet and caring for hunting. She would always want to bring home every animal your father shot and nurse it back to health. “Somewhere between those two lies everything you need to hit in order to do the job and do it well. And for the love of god, don’t you ever aim directly for the shoulder. Behind it, kiddos, always aim behind it. You got it?”

“Yes Papa,” you’d all chime out together.

Setting down the binoculars in your hands, you reach for your bow and pluck an arrow from your quiver before stepping out from behind the boulder. You’re careful to be as silent as possible as you take a few steps closer towards the unsuspecting grazing animal. You position yourself and stand perpendicular to the deer, placing your feet shoulder width apart—you’re a little farther from your target than you would have preferred, but you don’t want to risk going any closer and scaring her off, so it would have to do. Once you feel comfortable enough with your stance, you nock the arrow and set it on the string. You then hold the string and steady your grip on the bow, relaxing your shoulders before drawing it and pulling your arm back until you’ve reached your anchor point, which is always the corner of your mouth. 

Breathe, you remind yourself calmly as you aim at the delicate spot behind her shoulder blade. Nice and slow. Breathe.

Just as you’re about to release the arrow and take your shot, the deer whips her head back towards the trees and her ears prick forward—a split second later, she darts off, zooming across the field in the opposite direction of where you’d been standing. 

Your mouth falls open in disbelief. 

“Are you fucking shitting me?” you mutter under your breath.

Frustrated, you lower your weapon and just as you start to contemplate whether or not it’s even worth it to try and hunt her down on foot, you suddenly hear something—it isn’t until the noise draws closer to where you’re standing that you realize it’s the sound of a galloping horse.

Perplexed, you squint over in the direction of where you think it’s coming from, right near the edge of the trees. Then, just a moment later, a brown stallion emerges from the woods with a dark haired man riding in his saddle. He holds a rifle in one hand and clutches the reins tightly in the other. 

Gasping, you whirl around on the heel of your boot and immediately make a beeline back to the boulder. You swing around the rock and crouch down, ducking out of his sight. You couldn’t be too sure if he’d seen you or not, but it doesn’t matter—a wave of sheer panic washes over you and you can physically feel your own body preparing itself to go into fight or flight mode. Despite having your gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, you still haven’t reached for it and continue to clutch your bow and arrow in your hands instead. 

Swallowing dryly, you turn and carefully lift yourself up just enough so that you can glimpse over the top of the boulder. That’s when you see a second man emerge from the woods. This one is blond and he is on foot instead of a horse. He’s also armed, carrying a shotgun. 

“You’re mine you fucking son of a bitch!” he shouts. He lifts his weapon, aims, and then squeezes the trigger, shooting the horse in the side and bringing him down instantly. His rider goes flying off and he hits the ground several feet away from the dead animal, landing so painfully hard that even from a distance you’d manage to hear the loud, cracking sound his body had made upon impact.

You momentarily freeze. 

Your heart anxiously jumps up into your throat as you watch the shooter begin to approach him. The attacker moves slowly and with no haste seeing as his helpless victim is lying there motionless on the ground with his eyes closed and no idea that he’s about to die. The blond man comes to a halt just a few feet away from him, grinning as he lifts his shotgun once again and points the barrel of it at the other man’s head. His index finger hovers over the trigger. 

Before your mind and body can even make the connection, you rise to your feet and aim your bow, swiftly sending an arrow straight through the blond man’s neck. He crumples, falling to the ground writhing and squirming as he bleeds out in less than sixty seconds.

You wait it out for another minute, refusing to move another muscle until his body finally goes limp and you are certain he’s dead. Taking a look around, you make sure the coast is clear and grab your belongings, slinging them over your shoulder before you make your way over to the scene. Unsure of whether or not there could be others heading in this direction, your plan was to pick off their guns and any other useful supplies before making a run for it back to the cabin. You crouch down beside the man you’d shot and killed, carefully pulling your arrow out of his neck. It makes a loud, horrid squelching sound as you remove it and blood from his jugular splatters your blue jeans. You then pick up his shotgun and check the chamber for ammunition. 

Just like the pistol tucked away in your waistband, there’s hardly any rounds left, making it all but useless. Rolling your eyes, you carelessly drop the gun on top of his chest and move on in search of the rifle. You spot it right beside the dark haired man.

Apprehensive, you cautiously make your way over towards him. With how still he had been lying, you could have sworn he was gone—perhaps the fall off of his horse alone had killed him. But just to be sure, you decide to give his side a harsh nudge with the toe of your boot. 

He groans and his head rolls to the side.

He’s still alive.

You effortlessly string the bloodied arrow in your hand and aim it right at his chest.

Move again and you’re dead, motherfucker.

“Ellie,” the man mumbles, his eyes still closed.

Ellie?

You slowly lower your bow.

Without realizing it, a little bit of your guard lowers along with it. 

Carefully, you sink down onto one knee next to the man and get a better look at him. He’s much older than yourself, somewhere in his fifties if you had to guess. He has harsh forehead lines, deep creases in between his eyebrows, a patchy beard that is speckled with many, many grays, and wild waves of thick hair that look soft to the touch. Though some of his features are a little worse for wear due to his age, he’s still quite a handsome man from what you can see. He also appears to be in decent shape, clean and well fed, and you detect the light scent of laundry soap on his clothes. Surely, he had to have been part of some kind of group, and judging by the leather trimmed saddle on his horse, this group was one that was very well off in this post outbreak world. 

You hesitate, but then lift a slightly trembling hand and take the side of his face, cupping it in your palm as you turn his head towards you. 

There’s blood on his right temple and your fingers reach up to touch what you had assumed was the source of the bleeding—but then you realize it was a scar, maybe an inch or two in length at most and completely healed. Your fingers trail up even further and venture into his hair which, as it turned out, is in fact just as soft as one would imagine. You find a small gash on his scalp and your fingers become coated in the man’s blood.

Must’ve hit himself on a rock or something.

Your hand leaves his hair and you place it on his broad chest as you begin checking him over for any other potential injuries or wounds. Slipping your opposite hand inside of his brown jacket, you lift the hem of the dark green thermal henley he’s wearing and you discover the scar on his temple isn’t the only one he possesses—he has several more, way too many for you to count on one hand alone. You’re so preoccupied with inspecting the remainder of his abdomen that you don’t even notice the way one of his hands is slowly reaching for yours, the hand that’s still resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

Semiconscious, the man takes your hand in his so damn gently that it startles you and takes you by surprise, but it doesn’t frighten you. Weakly, he laces his fingers together with your own and he speaks again, uttering softly, “Babygirl.”

Puzzled, your eyebrows knit together.

It almost sounds like he’s pleading.

For what—for who? For Ellie?

Is she the babygirl he’s referring to?

Your other hand moves up to his shoulder and you give it a violent shake. 

Hey, you’ve got to get up now.

“H—” You try to speak the words, but can’t. They’re formed in your mind and it feels like they are right there on the very tip of your tongue, but when you open your mouth, they refuse to come out. You frown.

It’s happened before. 

In the spring, you’d stumbled across a small group of people while out hunting in Idaho—it was the first time you had seen other human beings since leaving California in the fall. There had been both men and women and they even had children with them, but that did nothing to stop you from panicking when they’d approached you. One of the women cornered you, trying to tell you that they were traveling across the country to the east coast. “It’s okay,” she’d tried to tell you, holding up her hands. “We’re not bad people, I promise. We’re just trying to get to the quarantine zone in Boston. I think you should come with us, honey.”

You’d been so terrified that when you’d tried to tell her that you didn’t want to join them, you couldn’t push the words out. It felt like your voice had gotten stuck in the back of your throat. That’s how afraid you’d been.

Technically, you can speak.

You’d talk to yourself often when you were feeling lonely. You would read the books you carried in your pack out loud. Hell, you even liked to sing.

But whenever you became stressed, anxious, or scared, it would happen. You’d lose your ability to speak and to communicate—not that you had anyone to communicate with except for yourself, but that’s besides the point. No matter how hard you tried to force your vocal cords, all you could get out were quiet, strangled noises. It was as if your own fears chased your voice away and during periods when you were under extreme distress, it would take several days for you to find it again. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, whenever you used your voice back in California, it only led to the harshest of punishments. 

A gunshot sounds off in the distance, snapping you out of your train of thought.

You shake the man again, harder this time.

Come on, get up! They could be coming this way!

It’s useless. He’s losing complete consciousness. 

You hear another gunshot and this one sounds like it’s coming from the base of the mountain range on the other side of the trees, not all too far from where you are. For all you know, it could very well be members of his own group who are firing those weapons out there. But whether it was his group or the other man’s group, it doesn’t really fucking matter. You don’t want to run into either one of them, regardless of who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. In your eyes, everyone’s a fucking bad guy. 

Yanking your hand out of his, you get to your feet and prepare to make a run for it. But just as you’re about to take off, the man mumbles one last time. It’s incoherent and barely audible, but you manage to catch that name again. Ellie. 

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

For some reason you can’t quite explain, that sweet little name bounces around in the inside of your skull. 

You chew the inside of your cheek anxiously. 

If it’s his group out there, they’ll save him.

If it’s the other man’s group, they’ll kill him.

Normally, you’d have no problem with the idea of leaving another person to die.

After everything that happened in California, you had lost your sense of humanity. Your ability to empathize and actually give a shit about other people had been long gone—or so you’d thought. But you had just saved this man’s life and now you find yourself unwilling to run the risk of leaving him for dead. And you don’t have the slightest fucking clue as to why. He’s a stranger. He shouldn’t matter to you. 

You exhale a heavy sigh of defeat.

Okay, how the fuck do I do this?

Without much time left to waste, you gather up your belongings over your shoulder and pick up his rifle, slinging the brown leather strap across your chest so the gun rests comfortably against your backside. You walk around him, lean over, and hook your arms securely underneath his. Using every ounce of physical strength you have inside of you, you start dragging him back to the cabin as fast as you possibly can.

The pretty melody fills his ears as he comes to.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…”

Joel Miller isn’t all too sure if heaven is a real place that actually exists, but the very minute he hears the feminine voice singing, he can’t help but think he’s died and that’s exactly where he’s gone—because only an angel could possibly have a voice like that. So rich, so smooth, and oh so sickeningly sweet.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue...”

The ballad being sung is all too familiar to him.

The Wizard of Oz had been Sarah’s favorite movie back when she had been a little girl, when she was seven years old and she still believed in princesses and fairy tales and faraway lands with yellow brick roads. Even when she grew older, his daughter continued to hold a soft spot for the film and Joel would watch it with her every Thanksgiving at his parents’ house right after their dinner—it would air on cable and Sarah would beg him to let her have her slice of pecan pie while sitting cross legged on the floor in front of his old man’s television set.

“So long as you don’t make a mess on Nana and PopPop’s carpet,” he’d warn her. “Deal?”

Sarah would beam at him and nod eagerly. “Deal!”

He’d grab his own slice of pie, park it right on the couch behind her, and together they would get lost in the whimsical world of Oz, although admittedly he’d usually fall deep into his food coma long before Dorothy had the chance to make it back home to Kansas.  

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops

away above the chimney tops 

that’s where you’ll find me...”

The words fade and the rest of the song is now being hummed.

Goddamn, he thinks.Even the humming is too fucking beautiful.

Joel feels a cold, damp cloth dabbing at his sore right temple.

Come to think of it, everything is fucking sore. 

Once, when Joel had been in his mid twenties, he had been doing some under the table roofing job with his younger brother, Tommy. It had been the hottest day of the summer in Texas, and the two of them thought having a couple cold beers with their lunch to cool off would be a good idea. The pair of them went back to work and started fucking around, goofing off like the drunk idiots they were. While horsing around, Joel accidentally stumbled right over the edge of the roof and he had fallen about fifteen feet to the ground, landing on his back on Mrs. Adler’s lawn. Luckily, he’d been okay after the fall and hadn’t sustained any serious injuries or broken any bones, but he had spent the following three to four weeks feeling like he’d been hit by a fucking Greyhound.

That’s how he felt now.

Like he’d been hit by a fucking bus. Twice. There isn’t a single part of him that isn’t pulsating with pain—his back, his shoulders, and his head. Oh god, his head feels the worst. It’s fucking killing him. 

Joel’s eyelids twitch and he cracks them open ever so slightly, just enough that he can see the silhouette of another person hovering over him. He feels a hand at the crown of his head as the other continues to dab at his temple with the cool cloth. It feels incredible against his warm skin and even sort of soothes the pain.

He lets out a small groan and the humming ceases.

Finally, he manages to force his eyes open.

Joel hears a little gasp and the bed he’s lying on squeaks and shifts. He then hears a loud thumping sound as if something, or someone had fallen to the floor. 

Although he’s still disoriented and his entire body aches with even the slightest movement, Joel manages to push himself up into a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, his blurred vision steadies itself after a minute and he glances around. He’s in a small, single room wooden cabin that has seen better days in its lifetime. Looking down, he sees that he’s lying on a bare, worn out mattress with his own jacket draped over him like a blanket. He racks his mildly concussed brain, trying to recollect what had happened—it takes him a minute, but one by one, the memories start flooding back to him. Joel had been leading mid morning patrol with Tommy when they had been ambushed by a large group of hostile raiders. He remembers shouting at his brother, telling him that he’d try and lead some of them off, away from the direction of their community. He’d succeeded and managed to pick off a few of the bastards that had been tailing him with his rifle, all except for one. The very last thing that he remembered was the sound of a gunshot behind him before his horse went down and he’d been thrown off and knocked out.

Everything after that was nothing but a blur.

Joel takes another look around the cabin and that’s when he sees you.

You’re on the floor, backed up against the wall near the foot of the mattress. Your eyes are wide and round, like a deer caught in the headlights. Your chest heaves, rising and falling rapidly—you remind him of a helpless, frightened animal that had been cornered by a vicious predator. You clutch the handle of a switchblade up against your chest with the blade pointing downwards, holding it so tightly in your hand that Joel can see the skin stretching tightly over your knuckles. 

“Who the hell are you?” He grimaces slightly, his own voice causing his head to throb. 

You don’t reply.

Joel moves onto his next question. “Where am I?”

Again, no response.

He tries again. “Are you alone?”

Silence. 

Joel takes a better look at you.

You’re young. You couldn’t have been older than your late twenties, perhaps even your early thirties although that might have been a bit of a stretch. You had that look about you, one that had become all but too familiar to him in the last two decades—the exhausted appearance of someone trying to survive in the post outbreak world. Your face is tired and worn, but somehow still soft and youthful at the same time. You might have looked a little rough around the edges, but you’re still the prettiest goddamn thing he’s seen in a long, long time. 

Joel speaks again. “Who are you? Where the hell are we?” When he’s met with complete silence for the fourth time, he raises an eyebrow, feeling annoyed. “You gonna fuckin’ say somethin’ or what?”

You can only stare at him, your fingers wrapped around the handle of your knife in a vice-like grip.

Joel frowns.

Are you really that fucking terrified of him?

Or perhaps you can’t hear?

Only one way to find out, he thinks to himself.

He raises his voice, asking once again, “Who are you? Where are we?”

You wince, your features twisting in discomfort.

Oh, you could fucking hear him, alright. 

Joel swings his legs over the side of the mattress, his movement causing you to shrink back further against the wall, almost as if you were trying to become a part of the old, rotted wood. He holds up his two hands, demonstrating that he has no plans to move another muscle towards you. “How long have I been out?”

He tries to show some patience and gives you a minute, gives you a chance to respond, but when you say nothing, he can’t help but sigh out in frustration. Just when he’s about to force himself to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of answers out of you, you lift your free hand and hold up three trembling fingers. 

His stomach sinks. “Three days? I’ve been out for three fuckin’ days?”

You give him a nod so tiny and so subtle that he would’ve missed it had he blinked.

“Fuck,” Joel curses, hanging his head. He begins to spiral.

What happened to Tommy? And the others? 

Did they make it out alive?

And then Ellie’s face flashes in his mind, causing the blood in his veins to run ice cold. 

What could she possibly be thinking right now after he’d been missing for three whole days? Who was taking care of her and looking after her while he wasn’t there?

He needed to get back to Jackson—he needed to get back to Ellie.

He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that if you didn’t start talking soon and answering his goddamn questions.

Lifting his head, Joel looks over at you again. 

“You all by yourself?”

You hesitate, but then nod in reply. Yes.

Joel sighs, his tense shoulders relaxing. That’s a start. “Listen, I’m gonna need a little help here, alright? I don’t remember much ‘bout what happened. I’m part of a community. I was out on patrol with my group when we were attacked by raiders. There were too many of them and I tried to lead some of them away,” he explains. He might not have known what had happened after he’d been thrown off of his horse, but the fact that he’s in your cabin and he’s alive help him piece at least one part of the puzzle together. “Wait a minute. Did you—did you save me out there?”

Sucking in your bottom lip, you nod again.

Stunned, Joel’s eyebrows raise up towards his hairline. “You fuckin’ serious?” he can’t help but question in complete and utter disbelief. Skeptically, he presses, “But how? What happened out there? How did you get me here all by yourself?” His queries spill from his lips one after the other despite knowing most of them, if not all of them, would go unanswered.

You look overwhelmed by them—by him.

Figuring it’s best to take it one slow step at a time, Joel stands up and he cautiously walks over towards you. He holds out his hand. “S’alright,” he assures you in the most gentle voice he can muster. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You refuse to loosen your grip on your knife, but you accept his hand and allow him to help you up to your feet. Given that you didn’t lodge the blade straight through his chest, Joel would say some progress had been made. 

He releases your hand and takes a step backwards to give you your space. He isn’t too sure if you can’t talk or simply don’t want to talk—still thinking you’d been the woman he’d heard singing when he had drifted back into consciousness, he guesses it’s probably the latter. 

Joel tries to think of questions he knows you’ll be able to answer without having to speak. 

“How long have you been by yourself?”

Shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, you hold up one finger. 

“Sorry darlin’ but that don’t really help me much,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Are we talkin’ one week? One month?”

You make a gesture with your hand. Keep going.

“One year?” He doesn’t bother hiding his blatant skepticism. “You’ve been completely alone for one whole year?”

You point at him. That’s right. 

Joel is beside himself. He’s almost in awe over the fact that you’ve survived on your own for so fucking long.

“You got any other weapons besides that knife?”

You nod over towards a bow and sheath of arrows next to your backpack.

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s all you’ve got?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Hey, it’s a good weapon and it saved your fucking life, thank you very much.

“Sorry. Just can’t imagine that thing would do much against a clicker. ‘Specially if your aim is shit,” Joel muses. He notices the offended expression on your face and quickly moves on. “You don’t have a gun at all?”

You reach behind yourself and pull out a colt pistol from the waistband of your jeans. You finally set down your knife and then show him that you’re low on ammunition and don’t have any more. Tucking the gun back into your jeans, you step around him and walk over to a corner where his rifle is propped up against the wall. You pick it up, make your way back over to him and hand it over. 

I believe this belongs to you.

“Thank you,” he utters quietly, taking it from you. “And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the gun, either. I honestly don’t think I’d be standin’ here alive if you hadn’t done whatever it was you did out there.” His eyes try meeting yours. “I’m serious, darlin’. I owe you one. I really fuckin’ do.”

You shrug, too timid to meet his gaze.

“I’m Joel,” he says after a minute, setting his rifle down. “What’s your name?”

You simply stare at him.

“Oh that’s right,” Joel mumbles sheepishly. “You can’t—” He stops himself, but he’s sure you know what he’d meant to say.

You can’t talk.

“You got a pencil or somethin’ to write with?”

You snort and roll your eyes at him. No, sorry. Silly me totally forgot to pick up a pack of pencils while I was out scavenging for supplies the other day.

Joel chuckles and holds up his hands in defense. “Figured it was at least worth askin’,” he says. “It’d be kinda nice to know the name of the person who saved my fuckin’ ass, you know.” He clocks the way the corners of your mouth threaten to turn upwards into a tiny smile at his remark. “How ‘bout a map? You got one of those so you can show me where we are?”

You hold up a finger, as if telling him to give you a minute. Digging into one of the front pockets of your pack, you pull out a large map of the state of Wyoming. It’s severely creased, as if you’ve folded and unfolded it hundreds of times. You hand it over to him and as he holds it out for you, you point to your current location. 

“Jackson’s ‘bout fifteen miles south from here,” Joel murmurs as he scans the map. Suddenly, his dark brown eyes flicker over your wrist—the long sleeve of your thin gray shirt had hiked up, exposing severe discoloration and scarring that went all the way around, marking your skin. 

Noticing where his gaze had wandered off to, you quickly retract your hand away from the map and tug your sleeve down back into place. But it’d been much too late. He had seen the mark, clear as fucking day. 

Joel awkwardly clears his throat and for the sake of not causing you any discomfort, he pretends he hadn’t seen a goddamn thing. He turns his attention back to the map. “Remember how I told you I’m a part of a community? It’s in Jackson and it ain’t all too far from here,” he states, peering up at you from over the top of the map. “The town’s gated and it’s secure. You’ll be safe there. If we head out right now, we can make it there by nightfall—”

You back away from him, shaking your head.

I’m not going with you.

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Look darlin’, I don’t mean to offend, but you ain’t gonna last a whole lot longer out here on your own, especially not in a place like this with winter right around the corner. If you don’t starve to death, then you’ll fuckin’ freeze to death.”

You glare at him and lift your chin.

I’ve been doing just fine on my own, thanks. 

Having read your mind, Joel sighs. “Alright, fair enough. You’ve gotten this far by yourself, but that don’t mean you gotta turn down an offer for some help. Just come with me to Jackson—”

You shake your head even harder.

The last time that you had agreed to go back with a stranger to their camp, you’d been imprisoned. Tortured. 

Joel observes you, and it doesn’t take him very long to connect the dots between the scars around your wrists and your refusal to leave with him. His hard, stony face softens. “Listen sweetheart, I ain’t all too sure ‘bout what’s happened to you,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I can assure you that you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing this time around. Just come with me and I’ll prove it to you.”

You toss him a skeptical look.

“Jackson is a safe place,” he swears. “My brother runs it along with his wife and a small council. There’s families, lots of children—hell I’ve got a kid myself. Teenager. Her name is Ellie and she’s fifteen years old.”

Your lips part slightly and your eyes glimmer with something that looks a lot like recognition, though Joel can’t be too sure what had prompted it. Perhaps you’d known someone with that name once in your life. 

“There’s plenty of food, running water, electricity,” he lists off in an attempt to sway you. “It’d be a shot at a normal life. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Crossing your arms, you lift your chin again.

You’d heard that before.

Why the hell should I even trust you? Why should I trust this place is what you say it is?

Joel bites back another frustrated sigh. 

Normally, he wouldn’t bother to put up with such stubbornness. He wasn’t one to plead or beg and part of him almost wanted to give up so he could be on his way, but you had saved him from being killed. He owed you his fucking life. He had to get you to go with him. He wouldn’t give up until you agreed to go to Jackson with him. 

“I’ll let you carry your weapons,” he offers as a compromise. “Hell, you can even walk behind me with your gun pointed at the back of my fuckin’ head if that’s gonna make you feel safest.”

You squint at him. Really?

“Or that bow of yours,” he adds, chuckling softly. “It’s your pick, darlin’. Whatever’s gonna make you feel comfortable. I’ll trust you not to shoot an arrow through the back of my skull—all I ask in return is that you at least make an attempt to trust me too. I think that’s a fair enough deal. Don’t you?”

You bite your bottom lip. 

I don’t know about this.

“I really don’t wanna leave you out here all alone,” Joel says, taking a step closer towards you. He finds himself feeling surprised that it hadn’t startled you and he only hopes that means that, to some degree, you trust him already. “Please. You saved my life—and I know you probably don’t need me savin’ yours, but at least let me take you to Jackson so you can see for yourself what we’ve got goin’ on there. If you don’t like it and you don’t wanna stay, then we’ll load up your pack with food and supplies. We’ll put you on a horse and you can be on your way. You can choose to leave and no one will lift a finger to stop you, I’ll make sure of it. How does that sound?”

He waits, giving you a chance to think it over.

Finally, after a minute, you sigh and reluctantly nodd your head. 

Okay. I’m gonna try and trust you.

“Good,” Joel says, softly. “Now get your stuff and let’s head out before we start losin’ daylight.”