She pauses, then adds, “But you can’t just wallow forever. What’s that John Wayne saying? ‘Man the fuck up.’ Oh wait. Maybe that’s not John Wayne. Might just be my gramps’s interpretation.”
The more she speaks, the more I become aware of how young she sounds. That realization, more than anything, draws me back into the present.
I lift my head and stare through the bars at the stone wall across from me.
“It’s Lila, right?” I ask quietly. “Your name?”
There’s a small gasp, then a pleased whisper. “Yes, that’s my name. And you’re Orán, right? Or do you prefer Pestilence? Or what was it Eri called you?”
“Plague Caster,” I correct. “And no. I wouldn’t prefer that. Orán is fine.”
“Okay, wow. Orán.” She lets the name roll around like she’s tasting it. “I can’t say it with your nifty accent, and I’m probably botching it up, but I hope you’ll forgive me. Anyway, yeah. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lila Taylor.”
“How old are you, Lila?”
“Seventeen.”
“And how did you come to be here?”
There’s a pause.
“Well… that’s a little more complicated than I was hoping for. But I guess if it gets you talking, I’ll tell you a little.” She clears her throat. “Eri saved me. I’ve been here for about six months. Usually, I stay in the house with her, but since you came and since it’s getting close to the time the elixir runs out, she thought it’d be better if I stayed down here and kept an eye on you while she makes her next run for supplies.”
“Run for supplies?”
“Yeah. She keeps them stored all over. Doesn’t think it’s smart to keep everything in one place, so she spreads it out and makes trips when she needs things.” She sucks in a breath. “Oh shit. Probably shouldn’t have shared that. Rewind. Erase.” There’s tapping against the wall, then, “You heard none of what I just said. Righhht?”
I can’t stop the small grin that forms. “Too late.”
“Daamn… it.”
“You sound less like a prisoner and more like an accomplice.”
She chuckles. “I guess so. I mean… I’m here by choice.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s safe here. Eri protects me. And out there—well, let’s just say there aren’t many places a seventeen-year-old girl can go without ending up right back where I was when she found me.”
“Which was?”
She exhales. “Straight for the gut. Man, you don’t pull any punches.”
I rise and move toward the bars.
When I peer out, I’m met with Lila’s face. The metal obscures parts of her, but her youth is unmistakable—round cheeks flushed with warmth, a small nose that tilts upward at the tip. My gaze drifts lower, and what I missed before comes sharply into focus.
Her belly.
It protrudes beneath the thin fabric of her blue shirt.
The implication hits me like a battering ram.
“Lila…”
“Yes,” she whispers, like we’re sharing a secret.
“Tell me you’re not pregnant.”
