Page 49 of One Adult, Please

I stare at him. He said "you're a thing" the way another person would say "you matter" and it's the most Joel sentence that's ever been Joeled.

"You're a thing too," I say, which isn't what I meant to say but is also exactly what I meant to say.

His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than functional. I can feel Beck watching us from the floor.

The early light is coming through the porthole in pale stripes that land on the desk, on the crayon plan.

I lie back down. My body says: you're warm and safe and there are two people here who took your watch and let you sleep and you can close your eyes again because they're here.

I nestle into the sleeping bag. My body curls on the bench and I can feel Beck against the bench frame below me, his shoulder warm against the cushion near my back, and I can hear Joel's breathing from the chair.

Two points of warmth in a dark room on a crime boat at the end of the world.

I close my eyes.

This time I don't feel guilty about it. I don't need to stay awake to believe I'm safe.

Today we find the garden part. Today I get up and I lead and I fall and I get back up because that's the deal.

13

THE GARDEN PART HAS A ROUND FRIEND PROBLEM

GRACE

The back route to the garden part is a service corridor that runs along the park's outer wall, behind the maintenance buildings, through a section of the park that guests never see because it's ugly and has none of the manufactured wonder that someone paid millions to manufacture.

Joel knows about it because Joel knows about every hallway, corridor, passage, and duct in this place the way I know about every Walgreens in a five-mile radius of my apartment.

"Service Corridor D," he says, unlocking a gray metal door behind the maintenance warehouse. "Runs the full western perimeter. Connects to Wonder Garden's rear access near the veterinary building. Four hundred meters. No windows. One junction. Two fire exits."

"And the wrong people situation?"

"Unknown. It's been sealed since the outbreak but there were staff in the service areas when everything started."

"So it could be a hallway or it could be a wrong person highway. Love that for us."

Beck goes first because Beck always goes first and has made this his whole personality. Axe in one hand, flashlight in the other, fish vest gleaming in the industrial lighting like a dolphin on a mission.

Joel goes second because Joel has a wrench and a system and the system says second.

I go third because it's where I'm least likely to accidentally trigger something.

The corridor is gray, lit by emergency strips that cast everything in a sickly yellow that makes my skin look like I'm auditioning for wrong person status myself. Pipes run along the ceiling. Electrical tube things line the walls. The floor is bare concrete, which is actually great for me because concrete is the most honest surface I've ever walked on and I appreciate its commitment to flatness.

We find them at the junction.

Two of them. Standing in the T-intersection where Corridor D meets a cross-passage. They're facing opposite directions, which is a small mercy, like two security cameras with overlapping blind spots.

One is in kitchen whites, still wearing nonslip shoes, which are industry standard for food service and apparently very helpful for wandering dead through service corridors. The other is in maintenance coveralls, and Joel's step falters for just a fraction of a second when he sees the uniform.

He knows this person. Knew. The tense matters.

"I've got them," Beck says.

"Wait," Joel says.

Beck stops immediately, which tells me two things. One, Beck does know how to stop. Two, Joel's voice can do things to people when he lets it.