Daudling isn’t an option. The Ortizes aren’t running a charity. Besides, Penelope’s coop was a mess before I left. By now, it’s filthy.

  But first, I have to take the kid back. There’s nothing for it. Westwood is designed for this. Besides, they need to know what happened to Jonathan, and I need to be paid.

  We bid goodbye to the Ortiz family, and the boy takes special care to thank them for the food and bed. Rufus offers him a clumsy smile. “You should come back when the peaches are ripe.”

  My heart shrinks in my ribcage. Rufus doesn’t make many friends, and there is virtually no chance we will ever see this kid again. He looks a little sad as he tells Rufus that it would be great.

  The boy's deformed arm, combined with Marigold’s height, make it impossible for him to mount by himself. Kneeling, I lace my fingers to hoist him up. “Come on.”

  He pauses on the sidewalk, dancing from one foot to the other in his worn-out sneakers. The rocks in his front pocket crack against each other with each movement.

  “Do I have to go back?”

  “Hurry up.” I wiggle my fingers.

  He looks down the sidewalk, biting the inside of his cheek.

  I growl, “Do not make me chase you.”

  Granted, Marigold would do most of the running, but I’m not in the mood. The sooner we’re done, the better.

  The brat sighs and stomps over, stepping into my hands with all the grace of a long-dead lurcher. He nearly falls as I boost him up. He timidly reaches out with his one good hand, taking the reins. I appreciate that he doesn’t want to hurt my horse, but this is ridiculous. “Do you want to fall?”

  He swallows, shakes his head, and holds tighter. Marigold huffs but doesn’t protest further as I climb up, using my arms to cage the kid. “You can let go now.”

  With a click of my tongue, she starts on a slow trot, and I direct her back into town. She snorts in surprise but doesn't comment otherwise.

  Thankfully, the boy’s not a chatterbox. Mostly, he takes in the scenery, his eyes gliding over the broken city and peering into every rusty car we pass. Every so often, his eyes flick to the ground, watching it with an intensity it doesn’t deserve.

  “I wouldn't,” I warn.

  If he jumps off Marigold, the fall alone could injure him. And that’s if he doesn’t tangle with her hooves.

  He glares over his shoulder, those freckles deepening as his cheeks burn red. “What do you care?”

  I keep my eye on the debris-laden path ahead of us. “You owe me a debt.”

  I can feel him continuing to glare. “Tell me how to pay it?”

  There isn’t an easy answer. I’m not even sure why I said it. That freckled face stays turned, the eyes locked on me. The scrutiny makes my skin crawl.

  “I can be useful.” His tone surprises me. It’s not a plea, just a statement of fact. No doubt Westwood has given him some skills, but that’s besides the point.

  “I don’t need an apprentice.”

  “I’ll do the gross stuff. I can burn the zombies or chop them up.”

  “No.”

  This is the only choice. The civies will never help him; disabilities are a weakness. You’re of less use to the community. A liability. Even children would ostracize him, or risk it themselves. His only daily meal would come from school. Not that Westwood is much better.

  “How did you know?”

  The question jerks me from my thoughts. “Huh?”

  Those brown eyes try to dissect me. “How did you know?”

  I don’t answer, just shrug.

  “You even knew about Westwood without me telling you,” he prods.

  “It’s not exactly a secret.”

  There’s a long pause, only the occasional groan of a desperate lurcher, and Marigold’s clip-clops fill the silence.

  “You’re like me,” he accuses, so low I almost miss it.

  My guts seize, and I fight to keep my face neutral. “You can plainly see I’m not.”

  I wiggle my arms for emphasis.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I swallow my denial. The lie is dry in my throat.

  “I’ll tell everyone.”

  That gets a laugh out of me. “Nice try. Everyone at Westwood already knows what’s wrong with me.”

  “What about the next time I break out?” The kid tries to sound serious, but his voice wavers.

  “I rather doubt they’ll let you pull this again.” I swallow again, for a whole new reason. This conversation is bringing up things that even over-fermented wine won’t purge.

  He hunches in front of me. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “You’re right, and that’s exactly how it’s going to stay.” I give him a cold glare. “You’re a payday to me, kid. Nothing more.”

  “I’ll get out again.” His lip quivers, and his cheek burn hot. “And when I do, everyone will know about you.”

  We don’t talk anymore until the old chain-link fence, covered in bits of bloody fabric. My body turns cold and numb, all except my sweaty palms. By the time we reach the main gate, I’ve wiped them on my pants several times to keep a decent grip on Marigold’s reign.

  At least the face at the front gate is friendly. His dark hair conceals the entire top half of his face. A giant gap-toothed grin breaks his scrawny face. “Thea!?”

  I smile at my old cellmate. “Hey, Chad. Still smoking?”

  He stops smiling, rubbing the back of his head. “We all need some way to pass the time.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  The action ruffles his hair, and I avoid staring at the giant scar across his left eye. “Well, at least you’re not scouting malls like this rugrat.”

  “Oh, shit!” Chad slaps his knee and gives a loud hoot. “We figured you two were goners.”

  The kid flinches, and I swallow. “His friend didn’t make it.”

  “Well, that’s the way it goes.” Chad steps forward, unlocks the heavy padlock, and waves us in. “So not just a social call?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, hoping the headmaster can cover the cost.”

  Chad smiles again. “Maybe you’ll give her a family discount.”

  Even the sweat on my palms freezes as I force a smile. “We’ll see.”

  Every hallway wall is a monument to the past. The fliers and news clippings are pasted to the painted brick, detailing the timeline from Infection through Decline. Those preaching about The Cure are the most defiled, with long-gone politicians littered with devil horns and graffiti. The articles come in a wide variety, some pristine and clipped. Most are ripped and wrinkled to the point that their headlines are barely legible.

  As the timeline progresses, the fliers become more irregular, ranging from sun bleached construction paper to weathered cardboard. Children’s handwriting and old company logos peak from beneath the newer messages. I grind my teeth but otherwise keep quiet as Chad escorts us through the corridors.

  Off in the distance, towards what used to be a cafeteria, magazines pop and echo. In a nearby classroom, I barely hear an instructor explaining the difference between certain rounds. Further along, chains clatter, and moans merge, the smell lingering in the air.

  Everything just as I left it. At least until we reach the principal's office. Bring us your sick and weary is painted clean and bright over the door.

  Chad announces me, and my mother says to let me in. The kid sits in one of the rusty old office chairs, giving me an inscrutable look. It takes everything in me to make my fists unclench as I walk in.

  Her large chair doesn’t turn. I can only see the back of her head as she says, “One moment, darling.”

  Her desk is a heavy one, several dings and chips, some water damage she’s camouflaged under a tattered table runner. Behind her, several sunbeached paintings hang in weathered frames. I plunk into the rickety chair, not waiting for the plush back to spin to face me. “How’d you get the Alexandre Hogue?”

  “I’m not sure it’s an original.” The chair squeaks when she leans back, the eerie sound filling her little office. “No way to verify these things anymore.”

  “Of course not.” Instead of answering my question, she concerns herself with the collection’s value. Most people wouldn’t recognize the artist. Mother needs me to understand how priceless it could be, enhancing the mystique.

  As though finding an actual painting from before with ridges and layers in the paint, isn’t a miracle in its own right.

  I clear my throat. “Well, it’s beautiful, regardless.”

  The chair squeaks again as she turns in a smooth semicircle to face me. “Someone could grab your hair.”

  The twists are short, not even reaching my shoulder. Charlotte trims them at least once a month. I’d do it myself, but she claims it always comes out choppy. Still, I ball my hand into a loose fist at my side, to resist brushing a dread behind one ear. “I wear a helmet when I’m on the job.”

  “Still, an unnecessary risk.” Her near-black eyes roam over me, and my skin prickles under her assessment. Her skin is darker than mine; it’s always made me suspect my father was white. She also keeps her hair a near buzz cut. Her dark lips tighten after a quick perusal of me.

  “I like it.” I fight the urge to swallow. “And I’m here on business.”

  “Yes…” The corner of her lips creeps up as she continues to evaluate me. For the first time since I’ve entered Westwood, I’m thrilled I handed over all my artillery. Mother could spend hours analyzing the knives alone, belittling me for failing to sharpen them recently. She’d be right, but I could hardly tell her I had other priorities.

  That would reveal too much.

  Her gaze finally finds mine. “I hear you rescued one of our lost boys.”

  “The other had already turned when I arrived.”

  “A pity you weren’t closer to town.” You might have saved him.

  “Yeah, well, I can’t be everywhere at once.” I think of frost, trying to cool my tone. The corner of her lip nudges up another fraction. Dammit. “Besides, I brought home one.”

  “True.” Mother inclines her head and digs in a desk drawer for a binder. “What’s your usual going rate?”

  “Depends on the client.” I bite my tongue the minute I say it.

  “Didn’t realize you were running a charity.” She doesn’t look up, just flips through her book slowly.

  I let out the weary sigh I’ve been holding since I sat down. “Some clients have different things I still need. What do you have to offer?”

  “Better.” She finally looks back up at me. “We can replace your ammo.”

  “That’s a given.” And half the reason I decided it was worth this miserable conversation. “What else ya got?”

  “What else do I have?” she sighs, the weight of that simple correction sagging in her shoulders, as she flips more rapidly.

  I cross my arms, tapping my fingers against my elbow.

  She flicks her eyes to me briefly. “Tick, tock?”

  I force myself to keep the tapping at the same pace. “What are you going to do with the kid?”

  “Which one survived?”

  “I didn’t get his name. Blond, lots of freckles.”

  “What’s his status?”

  I grind my teeth to nubs. She doesn’t know which kids were missing, and can’t identify the boy from my description. Only one thing will jog her memory. “His right arm has some kind of birth deformity.”

  “Ah…” She draws the word out and stops flipping, her eye searching the air for something before she smiles. “Isaiah.”

  I snort before I can stop myself. “Which verse did you name him for?”

  “41:10.” She glares at me. “‘God will strengthen and help you; He will uphold you with his righteous right hand.’”

  I barely contain my snort. “Did his parents give him a name before you?”

  “Benjamin.” She wrinkles her nose. “Completely unsuitable.”

  “Of course.” I fight every urge to bite my lip or scream. She’s not even a believer. She only likes the way they sound. This is not a guess. “So what will happen to Isaiah?"

  “He’ll be grounded for a week.”

  My blood turns to frigid sludge in my veins. A single day in the dark floods my mind. The deep echo of monotonous moans bounce off the walls in my skull, the dead slamming insistently against the flimsy walls of my bathroom cubicle. Whomp! Their fingers graze my shoes, eliciting screams long after my throat is raw.

  “Don’t you think–” I cough. “Won’t that take him out of the work circuit?”

  I’d only been grounded once. For twenty-four hours. Even one one Charlotte’s joint can’t blur the edge of those memories. Whomp!

  “Only once. Fear is an excellent motivator.” She stops flipping, poking the page she’s leaned on with a wide grin breaking her face. “Aha! We have an extra shovel and an axe. Plus a few cans of pineapple about to expire.”

  The offer is generous. I’ve never even tasted pineapple, and canned goods are dwindling fast. The tools should help around the farm, even make great weapons later. She has no idea how much ammunition I spent. I only know because I counted what I had left while I debated what to do about Benjamin.

  But overlapping every word, the dead pound on the walls of my skull. Whomp! She doesn’t realize it, but that day was when I swore I’d get out of here. And behind the racket is the twerp’s threat. I’ll tell everyone. If she sticks him in there for a week, he’ll definitely try to run again. Sure, he has no idea what’s wrong with me, but the suspicion would be more than enough.

  “Not enough.” My mother shrugs and looks down, thinking. “You’re being rather ungrateful, Anthea.”

  Whomp. Whomp!

  I’ll tell everyone.

  “The b–” I force the words out in a cough. “The boy.”

  “Huh?” She looks up, her dark lips thinning into a crooked grimace. “What about him?”

  “I’ll take him.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

  “What, to rent? Along with everything else.” Her grimace twists in thought. “I suppose I can always ground him when he gets back in a week or two. Or I can send him after–”

  “Instead of the fruit or the tools.” What the hell am I doing? I should just take the damn fruit. I could save so many more people with the axe than just this one kid. But not if he runs away again. Not if she terrifies him to that point. “I need a hand around the house when I work.”

  “This is his fifth time going into a blackout zone.” She drums her fingers on the table. “A hand is all the boy has to give, Anthea.”

  I glare. She, of all people, should know better than to say things like that. All my wavering indecision solidifies. “It’ll do. Refill my ammo and give me the kid.