“Don’t upset yourself. You took care of your own and did your best,” says Leon, giving her hand another squeeze.
“And you can’t have been the only one,” adds Dean.
“Do you think so?” asks Natalia.
Dean turns to me and asks, “What did you say? Population of over three hundred million?”
“That’s right,” I say.
“There’s no way you were the only one, ma’am. They’d have found others and started doing testing. I think the virus just moved too damn fast for them to beat.”
This kindness earns us our welcome here as much as anything. Because Leon frowns heavily and says, “Look for the houses with a ribbon tied around the front door handle. They don’t have any dead bodies inside. Best to choose from one of them for your family.”
Dean wants a sensible brick house on the far side of town. But he loses the vote, two against one, to Sophie and me. Of course, we fall for a charming hundred-year-old wooden house situated a block behind Natalia and Leon. It’s painted blue and has a fireplace, butcherblock countertops, a clawfoot tub, and the necessary three bedrooms. There’s even a vegetable patch primed for spring planting out back. Solar has been installed on the roof, but there’s something wrong with the battery. Hopefully Dean can figure out the problem.
I think Sophie wants the house solely for the big old tree in the backyard with a tire swing. And fair enough.
As for me…this isn’t the sort of place I could have ever hoped to afford. It’s even situated on a large corner block with a view down to the creek. Not that property lines particularly matter now. But there’s grass and trees and room for us to breathe. To plant more garden beds. Outside is a firepit and a shed with tools and hunting gear. Which makes sense, given the deer’s head hanging on the living room wall. There’s also a back porch with a barbeque and comfy chairs.
And as promised, there are no bodies in this house. No smell to deal with outside of the rotting food in the fridge and freezer.
“Fine,” says Dean. “You two get to choose this place. But I’m keeping the tank.”
He’s relaxing in one of the dark brown leather armchairs in the living room while I make a fire. Tonight is cool enough to warrant it. And smoke from a chimney at night doesn’t stand out in the same way as it does during the day. There might still bebuildings on fire in the cities, but we don’t want to risk bringing attention to ourselves. Meeting new people needs to be done much more carefully with Sophie in the mix.
I wrinkle my nose in confusion. “The tank at the blockade?”
“Yes. One of the Joint Light Tactical Vehicles, too.”
“Okay.”
Sophie is fast asleep and sprawled across the matching brown leather couch. All of the cartwheels and handstands and inspecting houses took it out of her. There’s a large navy-and-cream rug on the floor, cushions and throws in the same colors, and chunky antique wooden furniture. Whoever decorated the house had taste. It’s a nice balance of style and comfort.
Sophie and I chose a photo of the family who used to own the house to leave hanging in the hallway. The rest of their photos are going into storage. We want to be respectful, but it’s our place now. She also chose some pictures of her mom for her room and on the mantel. And when I am ready, I’ll hang photos of my family too.
“It’s a week today since this started,” I say. “Happy anniversary.”
“You don’t seem to want to kill me quite as much as you used to.”
“Eh.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?”
I shrug and feed another twig to the fire. This is so soothing. Some part of me must be a pyromaniac. And I don’t question why I’m content to share a house with my jailer or hang out with him. There has to come a time when his rights outweigh his wrongs. Or when his reasons for doing fucked-up things take precedence. I don’t know. Nothing else in this new world makes sense. My thoughts and feelings for him aren’t likely to be any different. He’s going to help me keep Sophie safe, and that’s the priority. For now, this is how things are and it feels right.
“Would she be better off with Natalia and Leon?” I ask, searching for another subject to worry over. Seems to be the night for it.
“Why would you think that?”
“They’re older, wiser…Natalia has raised children and knows what she’s doing.”
He watches me in silence for a moment.
“What?”
“I am trying to figure out what you want me to say,” he says. “What you want to hear.”
“How about you just share your honest thoughts and feelings on the subject with me?”
