Page 60 of One Adult, Please

I draw my knife.

One clean movement. Base of the skull. Quick, because quick is mercy when mercy has become small and ugly and practical.

The infected stops.

Grace keeps holding the paddle in place.

"Grace," I say softly. "It's done."

She doesn't move.

I step back. "You can let go."

She lets go.

The body slides down the door and lands among dead vines and laminated signs about butterfly life cycles.

For several seconds, neither of us speaks.

Above us, the empty mesh dome glows with pale morning light. The plants drip with condensation. Dead butterflies lie like scraps of colored paper along the path.

Grace looks at the paddle. Then at me. Then at the body. "Did we just teamwork? Without Joel? Without Beck narrating it like sports?"

"Yes."

She swallows. Her hands are shaking. She notices and immediately grips the paddle tighter, as if she can discipline her own fingers into behaving. "That feels illegal," she says.

"It was effective."

"It was horrible."

"Yes."

"I don't like that both those things can be true."

"They usually are."

She looks at me for a long moment, and I see the moment she files that away as another inconvenient fact in a growing pile. Then she points at the body with the paddle. "For the record, the sleepy stick was slower than advertised."

"It was never advertised."

"It's called a sleepy stick, Grant. The name implies a certain timeline."

"It's a tranquilizer gun."

"It's a sleepy stick with branding problems."

Despite everything, I laugh once, quietly. It surprises me. It surprises her too.

We sweep the remaining path, the maintenance alcove, and every dead wall of greenery. Nothing else moves.

Outside, Captain screams from the east perimeter, still holding the herd.

Grace looks toward the sound. "Okay," she says. "We seal the butterfly jail and never tell Beck there was a door kill."

"We probably have to tell him."

"No. He'll name it something awful."