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Carlos lets out a laugh that sounds torn out of him. “I think you have me confused with you, mi flor.”

A few of us make sounds that try to be laughs and collapse halfway out.

Lyla steps one inch closer. Carlos drags both hands through his hair and turns away, then turns right back because not looking hurts worse. Earl takes off his glasses and wipes them with shaking fingers even though there is nothing on the lenses. Jacob stays beside the dead infected, gun still in his hand, guilt carved into every line of his face. Barbara presses one fist to her mouth, her other hand reaching toward Joanie and stopping in the empty air between them.

Clair moves first.

Of course she does.

She rushes forward and ignores the way Joanie jerks back.

“Clair, don’t.”

“No,” Clair says, dropping to her knees beside her. “You do not get to boss me around while bleeding dramatically in an alley.”

Joanie’s laugh breaks into a sob.

Clair takes her uninjured hand and holds on.

Lyla’s eyes flick to the bite, then to Clair. Her jaw tightens. Her fingers shift around the gun. Her throat works once, swallowing down whatever sound is trying to climb out.

Joanie’s voice drops. “Can you wait?”

Lyla stills.

“Just until I’m not me anymore.” Joanie’s bloody hand curls against her chest. “Please. I don’t want to go out looking at a gun. I want to go out looking at you.”

That one hits everyone.

Barbara covers her mouth. Clair tightens her grip on Joanie’s hand and leans closer, shoulder touching hers, holding on tight.

Lyla closes her eyes for half a breath. When she opens them, a tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away.

“Okay, kiddo,” she says. “I’ll wait.”

The gun lifts, but not all the way. Not yet. The barrel points at the snow near Joanie’s boots, but Lyla’s finger rests ready.

Joanie looks at each of us in turn, giving a silent goodbye.

Her eyes find mine.

For once, there is no joke in them. No chaos or challenge. Just fear and a strange, aching apology, like she is sorry for making us hurt. Like she thinks this is something she did to us instead of something the world did to her.

I want to tell her no. I want to tell her she saved my mother. I want to tell her she is brave, horrible, loud, ridiculous, and ours. I want to tell her that if I could trade places, I would, because Joanie has not had enough time to be anything except a weapon with a mouth.

My hands stay empty at my sides.

Words have never felt more useless, and I don’t even have them.

So I tap two fingers over my heart. Once. Then point at her.

You’re ours.

Joanie’s mouth crumples. She gives me the smallest nod.

Then we wait.

Time stretches thin and cruel. Joanie sits in the dirty snow with her bitten arm cradled against her chest. Carlos paces three steps, turns, paces back, Wesker following him, then stops because Joanie glares at him.