Page 105 of After the Burn

Beck squeezed my hand. “You good?”

I nodded, though the lie tasted bitter.

Were any of us good anymore? Harper was on the verge of becoming an infected, and one of us would have to put her down. Lila had been traded for fuel, fucking fuel, and who knew what was happening to her right now. Lane, Ethan, and the girls may have starved to death at this point.

No, I was far from good, but I was as good as I was going to get until we figured our shit out.

As soon as we stepped inside, the smell hit me.

Bleach.

Wet dog.

Dust.

Months later, the scents had faded into one another, but my enhanced senses still peeled them apart until I could almost picture each one lingering in the air.

The waiting room looked frozen in time.

A faded mural of golden retrievers chasing tennis balls stretched across one wall. Children’s coloring pages still hung beside the reception window, their corners curling with age. A fish tank sat against the far wall, the water long evaporated, leaving only a crusty white ring around the glass.

Leashes.

Chew toys.

A display rack of collars.

I paused. “Max, do you want a new collar?”

He moved closer when I called his name and sniffed around the reception desk.

“Leave the pretty red one for Mojo. That’s his favorite color.” Wren ambled closer and pulled it from the rack.

“Maybe you could pick out a matching leash and lead him around instead of carrying him in your pack,” Lucas smirked.

“You can’t put a chicken on a leash.” Wren shook her head in exasperation. “Everyone knows that.”

“Yeah, Teach,” Beck laughed. “Everyone knows that.”

Someone had knocked over a stand of dog food, and Max had wandered over, sniffing the pile. Torn bags spilled across the tile, and dried kernels crunched beneath our boots.

“I don’t think he should eat that.” I bent to pull my dog away, but Beck stopped me.

“He’ll only eat what's good. Let him feast.” He kissed the top of my head.

Wren had put the red collar on her one-eyed chicken, and I had to admit it complemented Mojo’s coloring.

“I’ve seen dogs lick a shitty diaper clean. A little moldy dog food won’t hurt him.” She pulled a mini Baby Ruth from her pack and stuffed it into her mouth.

I gagged at the thought, but before I could comment, Adrian yelled. “Taryn, get in here.”

When I walked into the room, Finley stood over Harper, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Blood collection tubes, syringes, microscope slides, and notebooks covered the stainless-steel table beside him.

He didn’t even look up when we entered. “I need everyone quiet.”

The room fell silent.

Adrian pulled me into his arms and whispered in my ear. “Don’t wander off without telling me.”