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Mom checks the pistol at her hip, then looks at me. “Ready?”

I nod.

Edith lifts two fingers from her blanket. “Good hunting, kids.”

Earl holds up a tire iron. “We’ll keep watch here.”

Clair waves at us and Poppy chirps, “Don’t get eaten!”

I give Poppy a thumbs-up.

Then we move.

Cold air burns my throat with every breath. Frost crunches beneath our boots where it clings to dead grass pushing through cracks in the pavement. Wind slips through broken buildings and drags loose trash along the curb. Somewhere down the block, something metal creaks slow and lonely.

Quiet like this never means safe.

Lyla falls into step beside me, her knife, Sweetness, loose in her hands and her eyes on the broken street ahead.

“I’m thinking of benching Clair for Chicago,” she says quietly.

My grip tightens around my bow.

I do not look at her right away.

Because part of me understands.

Lyla’s mouth tightens. “I’m not saying she isn’t useful. She is. With a rifle, she’s one of the best shots we have. But close quarters?” She glances at me. “She froze, Leon. More than once. Chicago won’t give her time to come back slowly.”

I know. But I also saw her come back faster the other day.

Lyla looks back toward camp, where Clair disappeared behind the trucks with Poppy. “Still think I should?”

I shake my head.

She can get there.

I’ll make damn sure.

Lyla studies me for a second, like she’s trying to decide how much of that answer is strategy and how much is something messier.

Then she nods. “No close work. No front line. Rifle only, if we have a clean position.”

I nod back.

Fair.

For now.

We hit the main strip in formation.

Jacob spots the first infected near the gas station and lifts a hand.

Everyone stops.

No shots unless we have to.

Lyla takes one with her knife. Jacob drops another with the butt of his rifle and a machete through the skull. Trish handles the pharmacy one before it can make a sound loud enough to matter.