11| Evolving to fit it

11| Evolving to fit it

OTTILIE

" S HE SHOULD HAVE LET US GO." I drop the note like it's on fire.

Knox goes to the coffee machine, where he presses the power button irritably. "She made the decision for us."

I hold my hand up flat and stare at it. It's shaking. Fear for Gran? Or something else?

I reread the note, my head tipping to match the angle since it's resting diagonally on the counter.

Our reputations must be unimpeachable.

That has me shaking more.

Do not lie.

I lower my hand.

My first impulse would have been to show up and pretend we don't know her, wander up to the White House under the guise of random survivors just looking for food and some plates to smash along with the Mustache Man and whoever else is there.

Why show up and warn them that we're working with her—that would only serve to earn extra scrutiny from them, since there's no way she can go unrecognized. Someone is bound to know the face of the Vice President.

But me?

Even in DC, only the most politically-minded would recognize me.

And Knox?

No one would recognize him.

The only reason that would matter if we lie is if we'd be found out—and the only way we could be found out is if they'll be able to access government databases, run our faces through programs, find our ID numbers and learn our true identities, and the only way that's possible is if …

That's where Gran sent Gina.

She went to get the satellite access codes and the location of the ground disks, and Gina must have succeeded.

Gran is going to get them running again.

It's also why she didn't tell me. The government has been dead long enough for me to not be thrilled with the idea of government databases coming back. It's not a strong talking point. The only good thing about the apocalypse is the freedom of it.

I'd have tried to talk her out of it.

It's not a talking point or a speech you make to appeal to the masses—it's one you use to appeal to the person who controls them. It's a dirty trick in her own right.

"I'll be right back." I back away from the counter, swaying slightly as I do so.

Gran must have convinced the Director of the NSA to share the location of his bunker. He must have met with Gina long enough to hand over the codes to the satellites and the location of the ground disks that communicate with them.

And that's how she got sick.

I jog upstairs, trying to regain control of my breathing as I grab a towel in the bathroom, use water from a pitcher Knox must have put there, and scrub at my belly, cleaning away the remnants of last night.

And I stare at my face in the mirror.

I look pretty much the same as I did before.

I have less makeup on.

My hair is more chaotic.

But otherwise, I look like the same person.

It's too bad, because she was so close to happiness, that person in the mirror, and as I watch, her eyes well up. I go ahead and choke them back down—because I am the granddaughter of Viola Wagner, and crying isn't useful.

When my emotions are under control, I leave the room Knox and I slept in and go to my own.

I get dressed in a pair of formal black pants and a fitted sweater. I even put a pair of modest diamond studs in my ear, tie my hair back in a professional-looking bun, swipe on lip gloss, concealer under my eyes, and a tiny wing at the corner of each eye. I look like the pre-plague Ottilie again, like the woman Knox described who went to an Ivy League school and ate caviar.

Knox is still bare-chested when I get downstairs. He's staring out the window.

He hands me a coffee.

He flavored it for me. Peppermint chocolate creamer. I'm pleased to see that as I take it, my hands aren't shaking. Not anymore. I take a long sip. It burns its way down my throat. "I need you to hug me."

He turns to me, and he knows why. I can see it on his face. Resignation, frustration, determination.

My cheek finds his chest, just below his collar bone, my nose finds his throat, his chin tucks onto the top of my head, and his beard scruff will wreck my hair. I'll have to redo it, but I don't care.

His hands slide up my shoulders to cup my face, tipping it up so he can see my eyes. "We don't know what we'll find there."

"I know."

"Can I talk you out of going?" he says searching my eyes. "I could go alone. You said it yourself … apocalypse mythos stipulates this will be worse for women. "

My lower lip wobbles that he remembered my phrasing. "I'm not staying back."

He thumbs my lip. "I'd feel better if you did."

I nod. "And I'd feel better if you did. So we just both have to feel bad, I guess. We go in. And we go in separately."

He nods.

"And we pretend we don't get along," I add. "We can't pretend to be strangers because she has the codes for the satellites. At some point, they'll know exactly who we are, and if we lie, then we'll all be in more danger."

He nods again.

"The best we can hope for is to pretend that we don't like one another. Or at least that we're indifferent."

I think about the Mustache Man and Lavinia Hope—with any luck, Gran will have already made a deal with Mustache Man, and it will only be a matter of meeting with Lavinia Hope, offering her a position in the new government, getting her to step in line.

But anything could happen.

The world is chaos.

And we're evolving to fit it.

"Do you think about leaving and going to find your family if they're still out there?" I ask.

That I can understand completely.

If he left, I'd never stop worrying, never stop wondering.

"Maybe when this thing ends," I say, "when the government is rebuilt in a way we can live with in, we'll go to your home and find out."