Javi’s hair was starting to gray at the temples, and he often wondered if it was due to the stress of the job or if he was just in his forties. He’d been running over the current rations and supplies, every day for the last week, and the number kept dwindling. His clipboard had the proof of that, and the logistics of how much they had versus how much they needed was mapped out in it’s pages.

They’d have had enough food normally, but Claresholm’s population had been growing quite rapidly over the last few months. With the winter months setting in, people were eager to have a guaranteed food source and a roof over their heads.

Javi turned his head as he heard Flint enter the stockroom, with a noticeably fatigued look under his eyes. He walked the rows of shelves and traced his fingers along the boxes, as if he was counting the stock himself. He did not acknowledge Javi as the only other person in the room.

Javi cleared his throat and spoke up. “We’re stretched thin, but we’ll be alright.”

Flint looked up and met his eyes. He looked worried at Javi’s report, and pressed his mouth in a dissatisfied flat line.

“There’s plenty of grain still.” Javi continued, hoping to ease Flint’s worries and mask his own. “The winter could be a long one, but we’ll survive. We always do.”

Flint was not convinced, and Javi could see it on his face despite his nod of approval. As Flint turned to leave, Javi stood up to catch him, but stopped in his tracks when he reached the door.

“Did you meet Vera in the city?” He tentatively asked. “He was supposed to come back with you..”

Flint looked over his shoulder at Javi with hard eyes. “He’s not coming back.”

Javi opened his mouth to ask for elaboration, but Flint continued out through the door, leaving Javi alone with nothing but a vague answer on the whereabouts of his husband.

***

Fox had been crouched behind the desk in Flint’s office for the last ten minutes, trying to pick the lock on the bottom drawer. His long dark hair kept falling forward into his eyes, frustrating him and causing him to lose his focus more than once. When he finally heard the final click of the lock, he yanked the drawer open and started eagerly rifling through the contents.

He pulled out an old polaroid camera, and clicked the button a few times with no response before putting it to the side. A bottle of whiskey rolled around in the drawer, and he pushed it to the side to get at the polaroid underneath it.

The picture was quite old, with worn edges and faded ink. He only recognized one of the two faces in the image, which belonged to a much younger Flint. He had his arm around a woman a similar age, with round cheekbones and braids tied up over her head. They both had a smile on their faces, something Fox had never seen on Flint in the few years he’d known him.

Although a unique glimpse at a former life of Flint, this picture did little more than bore Fox as he tossed it back and shut the drawer. He rose to his feet and began to shuffle through the many papers scattered across the desk top, glossing over the words across them.

For the most part, it was duty reports from the different areas of the compound of Claresholm. Fox saw notes from their head cook, from the kennel master plus many scribblings in Javi’s distinguished handwriting. None of which were of any real interest to Fox, but he didn’t get to continue perusing as the door popped open with Flint walking through.

Flint eyed him suspiciously for half a second before shaking his head and walking to his desk. Fox quickly darted around to the other side as he sat, and decided to start talking.

“What are we going to do about LaFleur’s group?” He began. “This is a problem that needs solving.”

Flint did not respond, and instead propped his elbows up on his desk and began to read one of the many documents atop it.

“We can’t just let them get away with killing our men.” Fox continued. “That bitch in the city got what was coming to her, but who knows if that message got back to the rest of them?”

Fox leaned forward to gauge Flint’s reaction, and got none. As a matter of fact, it was quite obvious that he was intent on ignoring every word that Fox let out. He could tell his efforts at communication were in vain, and Fox threw his hands up in defeat before turning to leave without another word.

Flint watched as the door closed behind Fox. After waiting a moment to ensure he was gone, he leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh. He reached down to the bottom drawer and pulled it open, not caring that it had been unlocked. Flint grasped the bottle of whiskey and twisted it open, taking a deep swig of the oaky flavor.

He placed the bottle on his desk and reached down into the drawer once more, popping open the false bottom Fox hadn’t had time to find. Inside was thick with dust, and Flint pulled out an old leather journal with just as much dust as the drawer itself.

He tenderly unwrapped the cord that kept it closed, and carefully cracked it open. The pages were yellow with age, with the first entry dated more than twenty-five years ago. As Flint tenderly flipped through the pages, each entry began to be more and more spaced out. Early entries contained heartfelt apologies to his sister and mother, and later ones had admissions of unashamed guilt. Many lines throughout had been scrawled out, and a few pages had been torn out entirely.

Eventually, the entries stopped. Nothing was written for about ten years. Then there was one last entry, dated roughly four years ago, which Flint read with melancholy in his eyes.

It had one simple line: I’m coming home, Fe. Light at the end of the tunnel.