Hospitality is a virtue, but so is knowing when to leave.

-a saying oft repeated by Gaspard’s father

Gaspard woke, which was surprising in and of itself.

That he woke in a comfortable bed was a bigger surprise, as was the fact that his wound had been bandaged. Collapsing in the streets should have ended with him in the gullet of a beast. He wasn’t sure if being alive was a pleasant surprise, but it was a surprise.

While Gaspard was alive, for the moment, he was not unharmed. Somebody had cleaned and dressed his wound, but it still hurt like all hells. He did not bother trying to shift in bed or explore his new surroundings. Curiosity would only aggravate his wounds and make his recovery take longer. He still had a mission to complete.

Or he thought he did. He’d nearly died once already pursuing a vendetta from a world that no longer existed. Was it worth risking his life again, when most of his “targets” were either already dead or no longer sane enough to recall their crimes?

Gaspard’s thoughts drifted to the suicide, and to the painter. They had recalled some fragment of their former selves -even acted on the thoughts and desires they’d once had. His pale face bent into a scowl. If there was even a fragment left of those liar’s guilty minds, it had to be snuffed out.

His eyes were closed and remained closed, but he couldn’t help but turn his head towards the sound of a door opening. A slight rattle and a gasp made it apparent that his movement was a great surprise to someone. Gaspard tried to open his eyes, and found himself blinded by the light in the room. He squinted and struggled to adjust as whoever else was in the room got their bearings back after the shock of seeing him awake.

“Goodness, you’re awake,” they said. It sounded like an older woman’s voice.

“Was I not expected to?” Gaspard asked. He struggled to open his eyes again, and could only make out the blurred outline of the figure he was speaking to.

“No, no, you weren’t hurt quite that bad,” the woman continued. “Your wound was severe if left untreated, mind you, but with some proper care you’ll be on your feet soon.”

“Right. Feet. To that topic, how did I come to be here?”

“Another survivor dragged you to my door,” the woman said.

“An odd fellow in a harlequin’s suit?” The strange jester had claimed he’d watch Gaspard from a distance, and he was curious to see if he was being stalked by a madman after all.

“What? No. Red-haired woman. Brings me food and checks in from time to time, I think she sneaks about keeping tabs on survivors. She happened to come across you, and knowing that I was a nurse once, brought you to me.”

Gaspard tested his uninjured arm and, finding it fit to move, rubbed his chin. His stubble didn’t feel any longer, so he probably hadn’t been out for that long. A night or two at best.

“Does my savior have a name?”

“Not that she’s told me,” the woman said. “She doesn’t talk to me if she can avoid it. I believe she wants to avoid getting attached.”

“A sensible policy,” Gaspard sighed. “One I will echo. I thank you for your care, madam, and the continued use of your bed, but I think it best that I heal in solitude.”

His vision was still blurred, but Gaspard could tell the woman was giving him a long, silent stare.

“You intend to go out and get yourself bitten again, then?”

Gaspard took a deep breath and felt the sharp pain in his chest wound. He recalled the words he had spoken to the farmer several days ago. He stood by them.

“There are things that need to die more than I need to live,” Gaspard sighed.

The woman bowed her head and left the room, set down the tray she’d carried in next to Gaspard’s bed, and left the room without a word.

That same cycle repeated itself for two days. The woman would walk into the room with food or clean bandages, exchange short pleasantries with Gaspard, and then leave. Following in the example of the red-haired woman, they never exchanged names. The only thing Gaspard learned about her was that she was a widow, something he might have easily guessed. Gaspard doubted there were many happily married couples left in the world.

On the third day, just before he made his final preparations to sleep, Gaspard dared to move his wounded arm. It was incredibly painful, but possible. When the widow came into the room, Gaspard removed his own bandages.

“I believe I will have no further need of your care soon, madam,” Gaspard said. He tended to his own wound while she watched. “You have enough troubles in this world without a stranger bleeding on your sheets. I shall be on my way tomorrow morning.”

“You intend to fight again so soon?”

“To fight? No,” Gaspard said. “I am determined, but I am no fool.”

He finished wrapping the new bandage and cleaned his bloody hands with a wet cloth the widow offered.

“I simply mean to leave your care, perhaps find a place of my own to bunker down and finish my recovery.”

It was a bald-faced lie. While Gaspard did not intend to continue hunting, at least for now, he had no desire to sit still. The city center had overwhelmed him because he had gone in unprepared. This time, he would scout out his targets, and prepare for his enemy. He would not be caught off guard again. One of his targets was in the center of that mass of horrors.

The widow looked at him and raised one thin eyebrow. Everything about her was thin-looking, and frail at that. Gaspard wondered if she had been that way before the Moon, or if the stress and starvation of this apocalypse had done it.

“You are clearly a man on a mission, sir, and I shall not interfere,” the widow said. “But if you intend to leave, it would be unbecoming of me to not offer you one proper meal at my table.”

“This is hardly the time to be concerned with manners, madam.”

“Manners have nothing to do with it,” the widow said, with an oddly harsh tone to her voice. “It is kindness to a dead man. If you are so intent on leaving, this will likely be the last home cooked meal you ever eat.”

With a bow of her head, the widow turned and left the room without another word. Gaspard blinked twice and then laid down. For some reason, the words cut deeper than the bloody cut in his shoulder.