The flickering light from a waning candle illuminated a weathered face in the shattered mirror. Layers of grime clung stubbornly to the man's skin, and for a fleeting moment, he pondered the identity of the figure staring back, grappling with his role in the world he had once shaped.

With a dull, rusty blade poised against his throat, he focused on the rasping sound as it scraped against his icy skin. Unlike most, Rico had no choice but to endure this ritual without the comfort of water to soften the blade.

Crimson trails stained his cheek and trickled down his slender neck. Each cut stung, yet they served as a cruel reminder that he still possessed the ability to feel. This torment was a constant juxtaposition to the fates of those who had succumbed to the earth.

From his pocket, he extracted a small, clear vial and held it up to the dim light. Besides a couple of pills clinging to the bottom, his self-prescribed treatment was nearly exhausted. With a flick of his thumb, he flipped open the lid and poured one pill into his palm. Swallowing it dry, he tilted his head back, forcing it down with the scant saliva that remained.

His mind wandered to his family, nestled asleep within the makeshift shelter formed by corrugated iron. Maneuvering through the dimly lit space required careful navigation. In his clumsiness, he toppled a small chair, the sound echoing ominously through the container. Almost immediately, he found himself caught in a beam of light, staring down the barrel of a gun.

The woman wielding the weapon once wore an innocent, serene expression. Now, Rosa's eyes were wild, her instincts fierce and primal, ready to protect her child. Recognizing he posed no threat, she slowly exhaled and placed a finger to her lips. Rico glanced over at their daughter, peacefully clutching a teddy bear in her sleep.

Before succumbing to sleep, Rico felt compelled to confront a troubling truth. His health was rapidly declining, and his dwindling supply of medication posed a grave risk to his wellbeing. The repercussions of his condition were unpredictable, and he feared for the family he cherished.

Outsiders would remain oblivious for a while. Yet, as he sat behind the wheel, he could feel his grip loosening. Even if he remained in his seat, Rico would inevitably lose control, the scenery racing past him, fleeting glimpses lost forever.

This gradual memory loss would ultimately take a toll on his loved ones. Surviving in a world devoid of a protector was daunting enough, let alone in the hellscape they now inhabited. He hoped that, for once, the connection between past and future would sever, allowing the younger generation to admire the legacies left behind rather than condemning those who had come before.

The next morning, Rico resumed his daily routine, oblivious to the gradual decline of his sanity. Pains throbbed at his temples, which he dismissed as mere dehydration headaches. His daughter, however, could sense his deception.

Veronica mirrored her mother’s features, from her dark hair to the freckles across her nose. Often found playing with dolls or sketching, she had developed an unusual obsession with an orange crayon she had lost. This led her father to affectionately call her 'Pumpkin.'

Sitting beside her, he flipped through her sketchbook. One drawing struck him—the image of a house in a sunny field, brimming with windows, perfect for a family gathering. A smile crept onto his face as he recognized himself, holding hands with his wife.

But the smile faded upon spotting another figure in the drawing—a stick figure representing the brother who would never be born. As much as Rico wished for a sibling for Veronica, the harsh reality made that dream impossible. Raising his daughter alone was challenging enough; adding another child would only complicate matters. Veronica’s childhood was far from ideal, but given their circumstances, it was the best he could provide. Thus, she would inevitably grow up as an only child.

To shield his wife from sadness over the drawing, he carefully removed the page and tucked it away. He believed that with so many drawings of just the three of them, this one would escape notice.

However, a sense of dread replaced his sadness when he turned the page to find a dark, gothic structure scribbled in ominous colors. This ominous wall symbolized the barrier between his family and freedom. Whispers spoke of a democratic haven beyond, thriving amidst chaos.

It puzzled Rico how his daughter had learned of such things. He attributed it to her eavesdropping on his and Rosa's heated discussions. Rico often argued that the journey to the border was perilous, and while some had managed to cross, the odds were stacked against them.

He maintained that risking their lives was not an option. They would exhaust their supplies eventually, but he vowed to scout for new resources, navigating the dangers as best as they could. Staying put minimized their exposure to bandits and gang members.

Rico set off to inspect the junkyard, meandering through its remnants. Although it was daylight, the ash-laden clouds loomed ominously, casting a perpetual chill over the area. The sky, once a pastel blue, was now nothing but a memory, devoid of life and traffic.

Suddenly, sharp pains surged as past memories distorted his perception. Struggling to distinguish reality from illusion, Rico found his mind slipping into a realm beyond his control. The fabric of his existence began to unravel, blinding him to the horrors of his surroundings.

An overwhelming panic engulfed him as he witnessed his wife darting around frantically, shoving their possessions into a duffle bag. The sensation coursing through him echoed his darkest fears.

In a daze, he clutched a bundle of cash in one hand and a loaded revolver in the other. Despite his confusion, he realized his family was in peril. Acting on instinct, he pocketed the money and called for Veronica, brushing her hair from her face and holding her tightly.

"Listen carefully, Pumpkin. Bad people are coming, and they mean us harm. Remember what we talked about? You need to be as quiet as possible—"

"Like a mouse," she whispered back.

He attempted to smile at her cleverness, yet fear coursed through him, transmitting into his grip as he held her.

With determination, Rico led his family out of their tin home into the junkyard. Laughter echoed nearby, prompting them to hide behind a charred vehicle. The sound of heavy footsteps approached as the bandits drew near, howling and shouting as they leaped from one rooftop to another. With his revolver braced against the car frame, the family waited in silence, praying the intruders would pass unnoticed.

Three men bounded across the containers, their identities obscured by white paint covering their faces. The leader sported a wide-brimmed black hat and donned a matching blazer. The gang surveyed their surroundings for opportunities, but thus far, nothing warranted a stop. Suddenly, the leader’s demeanor shifted. He raised a clenched fist, signaling his men to halt, lowering himself to remain hidden.

Rico's anxiety grew as he wondered what the leader had spotted. In their rush to escape, they had forgotten to close the container door behind them.

Now the bandits had a reason to investigate, and two of them bounded toward the container. Rico’s heart raced as he heard their valuables being tossed and destroyed.

The leader remained poised, scanning the junkyard without moving his neck. His gaze absorbed the rusted remnants