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Langley, a shy, pretty fifteen-year-old, flushes in pleasure at the compliment, and Mason nods in his laid-back way.
“When you’re done with the last batch, take a break and split a loaf. There’s some apple spread from the other night. You can finish that up with it if you want.”
It’s nice to hear the rippling of pleasure after my words. This is the first time in years we have enough extra food to allow for the occasional treat.
After a moment, I add, “Elijah has been pulling weeds in the garden all morning. You might share the loaf with him too.”
“Has anyone checked on Molly recently?” I ask softly to Kate when the others get back to work.
“I looked in about an hour ago. She was asleep.”
With a nod, I leave the kitchen and make my way into the hall, pausing at the door to a tiny room that used to be a storage closet. My dad converted it to a sick room when my mom fell ill a year after Impact. There were no functioning hospitals or available doctors by then, so we had to try to take care of her at home. We never knew what was wrong with her. Likely it was some kind of infection that should have been easily treatable. But she had a fever for weeks and never got better. Just weaker and weaker until she died.
There were plenty of sick people after her. The dust and ash in the air caused lung problems across the world that have killed as many people as the hurricanes, earthquakes, and tidal waves that started up in force after Impact. Back when there were still news broadcasts, the experts were estimating at least half the world population would die in the first year. It’s got to be a lot more than that by now. There were twenty-seven of us on the farm when I was sixteen, including my family, the foster kids, and the hired workers (who’d done most of the farm work since the kids back then only did a few basic chores). Only five of that original number are still alive.
Molly is one of those five. She caught her foot on our mini combine a few months ago, and it got all torn up. We tried our best to treat it, but it never got better, and the infection has now entered her blood.
She’s awake as I come into the sick room and smiles at me weakly. “Faith. Hey.”
“Hi there. How are you feeling?” My hands are gentle as I get a washcloth damp with the bucket of water Jackson brought into the room that morning and wipe Molly’s pale, clammy face with it.
“Good. I’m doing good.”
It’s a lie, and both of us know it. Her fever goes up and down but never goes down all the way anymore. And the highs keep getting higher. It’s the same thing that happened to my mom, so it’s impossible not to recognize the decline. She’s not delirious at the moment, but she’s clearly in pain and is having trouble keeping her eyes open.
My throat aches. Molly is exactly my age, and she was my friend from the day my parents took her in. I go for the bottle of Tylenol on the shelf and dump a couple out onto my hand. “Here. It’s time to take more of these.”
“We’re getting low. You can’t use them all on me.”
The only medication available now is what was produced five years ago. We’re occasionally able to scavenge it on supply runs, but it’s getting harder and harder to find.
“You’re the only one who needs it right now, so stop complaining and take the pills.”
Molly does as she’s asked and then slumps back to the pillow, exhausted. “Pretty soon you’re going to have to give up on me. I’m not getting better.”
“You’ll get better as soon as we get you some antibiotics. I left a message about it a couple of weeks ago at the drop. Maybe someone can find them.”
Molly shook her head. “Faith, please. There’s nothing else to do. It’s okay. I don’t want to lie here suffering for who knows how long, but if I can go like Steven, it will be fine.”
I stare at her numbly. Steven was shot in the spine last year when a Wolf Pack tried to hijack our truck. He was in terrible pain, and there was no way to get the bullet out. He begged us to help him, to make the pain stop.
Jackson sliced his carotid artery, and he bled out in about five seconds.
My stomach churns, and for a minute I’m afraid I might vomit.
“I’m sorry,” Molly says, evidently seeing something on my face. “But if I’m not going to get better—”
“No. Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. You will get better. I’m going to find some antibiotics for you. You’re not going to die from this.”
She doesn’t argue, but it’s because she either falls asleep or passes out. I wipe down her face again and adjust her covers before I leave her in the quiet of the room.
I’ve barely taken three steps before Caden stops me. He’s fairly new here—still living in the old barn. He’s about my age, and he always gets on my nerves. But I try for a polite smile as he greets me.
“Tomorrow’s my day off,” he says. “I wanted to head out toward Louisville.”
New Haven is in the hills of south-central Kentucky—squarely in the middle of nowhere. Since the cities are the most dangerous places, we’re fortunate being so far out.
I shake my head. “You don’t want to get anywhere close to the city. You wouldn’t make it ten minutes.”
