Page 111 of Immune

Dr. O’Reilly.

That name sits heavy in my brain now, but I make sure not to react.

A woman leans into him, fierce and beautiful, her smile aimed more at the children than the camera.

Her mother.

A life.

Not an easy one, maybe, but what life has ever been easy in memory? But it’s a life all the same, with walls that weren’t barricades. With laundry and coffee and flowers and nail polish and someone behind the camera telling them all to stand still and grin widely.

It’s Dakota before the world turned her into a weapon. Before it hollowed her out and replaced all the good stuff with fear, distrust, and a morbid outlook on the universe.

My fucking chest hurts.

I give the photo back instantly, and her fingers close around it quickly. Too quickly. Like she expected me to keep it. Like she expected she would have to fight for it back.

I look away, because I know that’s what she needs from me, not because I want to. And while I’m staring at the air next to her head, I mutter, “Thank you.”

“What for?” she says, her head jerking up to look at me.

“Trusting me with it,” I answer honestly.

“I didn’t,” she refutes with a confused little shake of her head.

“You didn’t?” I ask.

“I showed you a picture,” she mutters. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes flash with that word, and it takes everything for me not to smile again. I almost let it loose, but I only barely stop myself. She knows, too, based on the way she narrows her eyes before tucking the photo back with careful, shaking fingers.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she says, so quietly that the rain almost swallows it.

I look at the city instead of at her. “Maybe you just wanted someone to know there was a before.”

Silence follows for all of five seconds before she says, “That sounds very dangerously close to understanding.”

“I’ll tone it down,” I tell her.

“Do that.”

Another silence, but this one sits differently. Not comfortable, exactly, but nothing about Dakota is comfortable. She’s all sharp edges and landmines and tripwires and signs that tell you to step closer if you hate having blood in your body. It’s not an empty silence, though.

The shed door opens behind us just then, and Ewan’s voice carries over to us, softer than usual. “Sorry to interrupt this very intense and wet staring competition, but our guest is doing a mental impression of someone about to die. It’s inconvenient, but it’s actually really impressive. I’m thinking of giving him a five-star review on Yelp.”

Dakota closes her eyes like she’s praying for patience. “I liked him better when he was silent.”

“No, you didn’t,” I contradict, calling her out a little.

She glares at me, and it’s honestly one of the best things I’ve seen today.

There she is.

Fletcher appears in the door next. “We move. Now. Streets below are shifting.”

“Zeds?” Dakota asks.