Page 108

CLAIR

The plan requires supplies.

That’s how we end up splitting into pairs and combing through the dead strip of stores two blocks from Carlos’s old building. Jacob takes Trish toward the pharmacy. Joanie and Lyla disappear into what used to be a craft store. Leon and I get the corner hardware store.

Lucky us.

We slip in through a busted side door, our steps leaving prints in the dust. The place smells like old wood, stale cardboard, and rust. Shelves sit half cleared but not empty. Enough is left behind for desperate people to dig through, and apparently, desperate is today’s entire personality.

I guess the crazed, flesh-eating psychos don’t care about sweat equity in the apocalypse.

Go figure.

A faded sign hangs crooked over an aisle.

PAINT. PLUMBING. ELECTRICAL.

That’ll do.

We move deeper into the store, careful and quiet. Leon takes the left side of the aisle, bow loose in one hand while his attention sweeps the ceiling, the corners, the shadows beneath overturned carts. I take the right, reading labels and grabbing anything that belongs in the general category of Things Lyla Should Not Be Allowed to Touch Without Adult Supervision.

Which means most of the hardware store.

I start with the chemicals and tuck sealed bottles of drain cleaner into one crate, then add bleach, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, and a few bags of powdered pool chemicals still wrapped tight enough that I trust them not to leak all over my life. Anything swollen, cracked, crusted, or unlabeled stays exactly where it is, because dying from mystery garage soup feels embarrassing even by apocalypse standards.

The crate is full before I make it halfway down the aisle.

I look toward the front of the store, where a crooked row of shopping carts waits by the doors like the last sad reminder of normal errands.

Perfect.

I grab the least squeaky one and start loading it with tape, batteries, wire, gloves, eye protection, and a few sealed odds and ends. I keep the containers separated as best I can, padding glass with shop towels.

Leon watches me for half a second, then steps in without being asked. He starts handing me what I point to, careful to keep the bottles upright and the labels facing out like he already understands the system.

Before the world ended, a place like this meant paint samples, garden gloves, Poppy begging to push the cart, and me pretending I knew how to fix a leaky sink after watching half a video online.

Now I’m pushing a cart full of questionable chemistry through the aisles while trying not to think too hard about what any of it might become later.

Personal growth is weird.

I pull a roll of tape from a peg and drop it into my bag. “For the record, I would like it noted that I am contributing to the cannibal mall robbery in a meaningful, science-adjacent way.”

His mouth tips up, and my pulse trips.

“Not saying I’m proud of the phrase cannibal mall robbery,” I add, grabbing another pack from the shelf. “But if this is where my teaching degree has brought me, I’m choosing to call it transferable skills.”

He licks his finger with slow, infuriating ease and makes a tally mark in the air.

Heat climbs my neck. I grab a box of nails and pause.

“Why do you keep doing that?” I ask, mimicking the motion.

His expression shifts. The teasing fades, leaving something steadier behind. He pulls the notebook out again, takes his time, then hands me the page.

Keeping track of the moments I see your confidence come back.

I go still.