Page 173 of Primal

Payton spins toward us, her mouth shaping my name. Eyes glassy but fierce. Daring me to stay upright.

The ground steadies. Barely.

“So,” Wesley huffs. “When the cops show, what do we tell them?”

One step. Two.

“The truth. See who blinks first.”

He scoffs. “Right. But, like. In order.”

I manage a crooked grin. “You worried they won’t believe you?”

“I’m worried they will,” he says, steering us around a patch of slick mud.

Ahead of us, Payton slows. The fanny pack bounces gently at her waist with each step, that pink teddy charm catching the dim light.

“We’ll need them to move the bodies,” she says. “All of them. Before … before the families come.”

Wesley nods, jaw tight. “Josh and Noah are still in the chapel.”

I squeeze his shoulder once.

“Got this one blackout.” Wesley nods at an ugly, faded tattoo on his forearm. “Don’t remember why. Point is, this shit? Barely top five.”

I chuckle—broken, bloody, real.

Payton glances back again, lips twitching like she wants to smile but forgot how.

“So, where you guys from?” Wesley asks, as if we’re not walking away from a graveyard.

“I live outside Portland. But my parents are in Salem.”

He looks at me. “And you’re the neighbor?”

“Across the street.”

A low laugh. “Must be one hell of a street.”

I don’t say anything. Neither does Payton.

Wesley adjusts his grip. His fingers dig in too tight—for the first time, I feel them tremble. “Alright. I’m from McMinnville. Little town south of here. There’s this bar—Lucky’s. Good fries, decent beer, and a jukebox that still plays CDs. I always hit the third button from the top. If we ever meet up, first round’s on me. Deal?”

Payton glances back at me.

Three of us trudging into the dawn.

Alive.

Together.

The Verge gates are maybe twenty yards away now. Looming through the trees like rusted iron teeth. Nearby, sprawled in the dirt—

Something twists in my gut—not the wound this time.

“Hey,” I croak, nodding toward the figure. “There.”

Payton sees it too. Stops short.