Caelan spent the better part of three weeks pretending that Dusty didn’t exist. It wasn’t a difficult task to accomplish, especially as the days went on. He had been left to his own devices once the door to his apartment shut behind him. Caelan was responsible for keeping himself alive, that was all there was to it. His interactions and visits with Dusty weren’t permanent or reliable. Caelan couldn’t depend on the man’s visits. For all he knew, this time could be the last. If there was anything the apocalypse taught him, it was to take absolutely nothing for granted.<br/><br/>Dusty had given him the general idea of how shooting a gun worked and Caelan worked on improving that skill. It was better than spending his days reading. He had let Dusty scare him into thinking that this world was unsafe for someone like him, when rather, he just needed to wherewithal to protect himself. His plans to head out to Connecticut were very loose, but at least he would have the means to defend himself if he did decide to attempt making the trip.<br/><br/>Caelan was scrubbing laundry detergent into his comforter when he heard the rumbling of Dusty’s truck motor, followed by the blare of his horn. He set his sponge down and approached the window, shoulders softening as he saw the man and his… chariot. Caelan held up a finger to tell the man to give him a minute and returned to his laundry station. He rinsed the soap from his comforter and draped it over his kitchen island to dry while he was gone. He wiped his soapy hands on a rag and stood by the door as he readied himself. He put his sunglasses on and hooked his gun onto his belt loop. Caelan doubted he would need the thing, but he wanted to save the expert commentary from his buddy. He swiped his keys from the table, as well as a fabric sack sitting bulbous and overflowing beside it, and headed down.<br/><br/>He stepped out from behind the metal door and crossed around the back of the boat - if that’s what it could be called - without commenting on the state of the thing. “I brought fruit. Figs, pomegranates, oranges, and satsumas.” Caelan announced as he opened the passenger door and tossed the bag onto the floorboard. He nudged the rolling fruit to the side with his foot as he pulled himself into the truck and shut the door. “I figured your citrus intake is nonexistent and I won’t eat it all before it rots.”  He had spent the first year of the apocalypse putting together a rooftop<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fimages.squarespace-cdn.com%2Fcontent%2Fv1%2F52cdaaf4e4b0b5ef88cb0b93%2F1555463491369-FI0P130VHTDX3USQ8YA1%2FBastille_Rooftop%2BFarm_Seattle%2BUrban%2BFarm%2BCo.JPG%3Fformat%3D1000w&amp;hash=b113309f4a5f9d8170fafa9a48e40f22" href="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/52cdaaf4e4b0b5ef88cb0b93/1555463491369-FI0P130VHTDX3USQ8YA1/Bastille_Rooftop+Farm_Seattle+Urban+Farm+Co.JPG?format=1000w" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">garden </a>and now that it was well established, and the middle of summer, his bounty was out of control.