Page 37

Not that.

I reach for my notebook, and she watches my hands, shoulders tight beneath her jacket.

I write quickly and turn the page toward her. Today was a good start.

She reads it, and her throat works. “I almost got killed by Kevin in the pharmacy.”

Kevin had an advantage. He worked there.

For one heartbeat, she just stares at the page.

Then she laughs.

A small, cracked sound at first, like it isn’t sure it’s allowed out. Then bigger.

My mouth curves before I can stop it.

She looks between my gore-smeared shirt, her bloody jacket, the hatchet in my hand, and the crowbar in hers. “So you’re not giving up on me?”

Is that what she’s worried about? I shake my head. You froze. Then you came back. Faster than last time.

She stares at the words like she wants to believe them and doesn’t know how.

I glance toward camp, then at the darkening sky. Chicago sits ahead of us like a loaded gun, waiting for us to be stupid enough to walk into it unprepared.

So we won’t be.

I tap the crowbar in her hand, then point toward the woods.

Her brow furrows. “Tomorrow?”

I nod. We train the freeze until it listens.

Her breath shakes on the way out. “You really think I can be ready for Chicago?”

I hold her stare, then write the only answer that feels honest. Not perfect. Ready.

Her eyes move over the words.

I motion between us.

Together.

Relief crosses her face, cautious and fragile. “Tomorrow,” she says, quieter this time.

I tear off another slip of paper. I write two words and fold it once before handing it to her.

She takes it carefully. Like it might bite.

I turn toward my truck before I can watch her open it.

Behind me, paper unfolds.

Atta girl.

She snorts behind me.

I keep walking.