Page 25

Her fingers tighten around the page, then around the crowbar.

There she is.

She just can’t see it yet.

That’s fine.

She will.

I’ll make sure of it.

Because the version of herself she believes in? Weak. Breakable. Not enough.

Bullshit.

I’ve seen what she does when it matters. Seen her bleed and keep moving. Seen her drag herself across pavement for that kid. Seen her stand between Poppy and death with nothing but a crowbar and a body already giving out. Seen her patch wounds, calm panic, shoot clean from a distance, and still apologize for taking up space.

That’s not weak. That’s dangerous. That’s survival with teeth.

She just needs to start believing it too.

An infected stumbles through the broken storefront, its jaw hanging open and loose. I draw back the bow and release.

The arrow hits right between the eyes.

It drops.

Starting now.

FIVE

TRISH WAS RIGHT ABOUT CARDIO

CLAIR

The infected drops in the street before I can decide whether I’m ready.

One second, it’s stumbling toward the jewelry store with its jaw hanging loose and its hands stretched out like it wants to be welcomed in. The next, Leon’s arrow punches between its cloudy eyes, and it folds to the pavement in a heap of dead weight, dirty clothes, and limbs that don’t know they’re finished yet.

So I’m starting now, apparently.

I swallow hard as more groans drift down the street. The sound creeps through the broken storefront, low and hungry, sliding over the shattered display cases and glittering broken glass at my feet. The world is reminding me that survival doesn’t pause for emotional breakthroughs.

Rude.

Leon steps in front of the door, bow lowered but ready, body angled toward the street. He doesn’t look worried. That should comfort me. It does not. Leon could look calm standing in the middle of a tornado holding a sandwich and I’d still have follow-up questions.

He glances back at me and lifts two fingers to his eyes, then points toward the street.

Watch.

An infected drags itself from behind a dumpster across the road. Its left foot twists backward with every step, bone showing through the ankle where skin has worn away. Another shuffles out of the alley beside the pharmacy, its face gray and collapsed on one side, one cheek chewed open enough to show black teeth through the hole.

Leon taps the crowbar in my hands, then points to the second one.

Mine.

Oh good.