3

The pale morning light seeps through the trees, the weak rays fighting to penetrate the heavy canopy when I crawl out of the tent the next morning. I’ve gotten used to sleeping in uncomfortable places—the forest floor, concrete floor, straight asphalt—and this was the best yet. The growing bruises on my body from the day before want to protest, though.

Nearby, the soft sound of rustling catches my attention. Zoey is crouched over her bag, her movements deliberate and tense, her brow furrowed.

“You lose something?” I ask, crawling to a spot near the fire. My ankle throbs when I shift into a seated position.

Zoey freezes for a moment before zipping her bag shut with a firm tug. “No. Just checking on something.”

“Right,” I say, unconvinced. Her tone doesn’t match her words, but I let it drop. She’s given me food, shelter, and safety while I’m down for the count, so the least I can do is turn my head. Questioning her feels like crossing a line. I groan when I push myself to my feet. “Well, gotta pee.”

Zoey rises and steps toward me. “Here, let me help?—”

“No.” I hold up a hand. “Let me keep this shred of dignity. I can handle it. And if I can’t, I’ll call for you.”

She eyes me, skeptical, but steps back. “Fine. But don’t go far.”

Navigating the uneven ground on one good leg turns out to be harder than I expected. I brace myself against tree trunks, hopping awkwardly until I find a spot that feels far enough from camp for privacy, without being too far in case I run into trouble. By the time I return, Zoey is crouched by the firepit, smothering the last of the flames, the smoke winding into the morning air.

“What are you doing?” I frown. “The fire keeps rotters away.”

Zoey slings her bag over her shoulders and straightens. “We’re going out.”

“We?” I glance down at my braced ankle, thinking back to the struggle I had simply using the bathroom, then look back at her, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

“That’s exactly why we’re going.” She nods toward my ankle. “I saw crutches at a house nearby. I left them before, because I didn’t think they were worth carrying. But now they are.”

I sink back down onto the ground, shaking my head. “I don’t want to slow you down. Seriously, Zoey. I’ll be fine here. I don’t need anyone going out of their way for me, and risk getting themselves killed.”

Zoey’s jaw tightens, and she studies me for a moment, her blue eyes blazing, her expression unreadable. “Fine. But we still need food. We both lost everything we scavenged yesterday, and all those cans are still sitting back at the store.”

“Wow, pulling the guilt trip already?” I roll my eyes.

“Absolutely,” she replies without shame. “And you’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you behind.”

I grab the box of matches and try to relight the fire. “All I’ll do is slow you down. I’ll make it up to you later. Promise.”

“Fuck you.” Zoey snatches the matches out of my hand and, before I can react, grabs me by both wrists and hauls me to my feet. Her strength for someone so small catches me off guard, and I stumble against her.

“Zoey, what the hell?—”

“It’s not far.” She wraps an arm around my waist and forces me to move forward.

“Well, if it’s not far, you don’t need me,” I grumble in my weak attempt to argue, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, we walk—and hobble—in tense silence.

The path feels different from yesterday, but I assume that’s because I wasn’t paying as much attention to our surroundings as I should have, on account of running for our lives from rotters.

When the trees finally thin, I freeze. A cluster of old houses rises ahead of us, their weathered frames long forgotten. I glare at her. “This isn’t the store.”

Zoey shrugs one shoulder, unapologetic. “A little detour.”

“What do you mean, ‘a little’? You lied to me.”

Without another word, she leans me against a tree and heads toward the nearest house alone. I stare after her, stunned. What is with this woman?

She disappears inside the house, leaving me to stew in my frustration. Moments later, she reemerges with a pair of crutches.

Zoey doesn’t slow when she approaches. Before I can say anything, she tossed them at me like a javelin. They land on the ground in front of me with a metallic clatter.

“Here,” she says, crossing her arms. “Use them or don’t. Your choice.” Then she turns around and goes back inside the house.

“This is ridiculous.” I reach down and pick up the crutches, testing its weight, and adjusting it to my height. They’re collapsible, light, and remarkably sturdy. Leaning on them, I take an experimental step. Relief washes through me when the pressure on my injured ankle eases.

I follow Zoey inside the house, grumbling when I pass her to let her know how frustrated I am, since I can’t seem to find the words to thank her for her stubbornness. “While you’re busy sorting through your knitting supplies, I’ll check the kitchen. You know, since we came here for food.”

She doesn’t respond, only rolls her eyes and returns to rummaging through what looks like a large basket of crafting supplies.

The kitchen is a disaster. Empty boxes and broken glass cover the counters. Half the chairs have toppled over on broken legs. I avoid the fridge—opening one of those anymore is never a good idea. They should be avoided at all costs. The pantry looks ransacked, but I dig through the mess, anyway. Beneath a pile of crumpled boxes, my hand closes around a can. I pull it out with triumph. “Score.”

I keep digging, unearthing a few more cans buried in the mess of spilled cereal and rotting food. It’s a good thing I’ve gotten used to the stench of rotting corpses walking the earth, because that makes this so much easier.

My bag is packed tight when a noise from outside stops me cold.

Approaching footsteps.

A voice—low and males—drifts through the air. I can’t make out the words, but we’re not alone.

My heart hammers when I inch toward the doorway, and I peer around the corner.

Zoey stands in the living room, her body tense. Across from her, a man looms, his wicked grin sharp and dangerous.

Shit.