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I tighten my grip on the knife. “I killed it.”

“After you froze.” Lyla doesn’t soften. That’s one of the things I hate and respect most about her. “That freeze almost got him bitten.”

Leon’s jaw tightens, and he shakes his head once.

No.

Lyla cuts him a look. “Don’t you dare do that noble silent thing. She needs to hear it.”

He goes still.

So do I.

I’ve killed up close before. Main Street. The prison. The road.

So why does one corpse drag me back to the pavement, to Russ’s gun, to my leg refusing to work?

Chicago is huge. Russ is probably dead. This fear has no proof behind it.

My scar throbs anyway.

Why do I lie to myself?

Lyla wipes her knife on the dead thing’s sweater, jaw tight, then glances toward the road leading back to camp. “We need to move. Noise probably pulled more.”

They start forward, but my feet don’t move.

Leon stops too.

And I almost got him killed.

“Leon,” I say.

His head turns.

The others slow.

I force myself not to look away. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

He studies my face, my hands, then my eyes.

Leon turns to the group and lifts two fingers, then points down the street toward camp.

Keep going.

Lyla hesitates before giving a sharp nod. “Stay within shouting distance.”

Their voices fade as they move down the street, boots crunching over glass and gravel. Soon it’s just Leon and me standing between four dead bodies, a broken storefront, and silence sharp enough to crawl under my skin.

Nothing says confess your humiliating emotional damage like corpse breath.

Leon waits, steady and quiet.

“I almost got you killed.”

His head shakes once.

“No?” My laugh comes out thin. “Leon, you were on the ground with teeth two inches from your face because I froze.”