He disappears into his room, leaving me alone with the dying fire and the sound of wind against the windows.
I curl up on the couch under the pile of blankets, my body aching from the crash, from the cold, from three years of constant running. But for the first time in months, I'm warm and fed and relatively safe. I think.
I close my eyes and let exhaustion take me.
two
Mayson
Isitinmyroom with my rifle across my knees, listening to Ruby toss and turn on the couch. Every time she shifts, I tense, waiting for the sound of her trying to sneak around, looking for valuables or weapons or ways to signal whoever might be waiting outside.
But all she does is sleep. Restlessly, with small sounds that might be nightmares, but just sleep.
By dawn, I'm starting to think she might actually be what she claims: a survivor separated from her group, nothing more sinister. But two years of staying alive by being careful means I'm not ready to fully trust her yet.
I make coffee and the smell wakes her. She sits up on the couch, instantly alert, hand going to where her pistol would be if I hadn't moved all her weapons during the night.
Smart woman. She realizes what I did and doesn't panic, just meets my eyes evenly.
"Coffee?" I offer, holding out a mug.
"You moved my guns."
"Seemed prudent."
"Can't fault you for that." She takes the coffee, wrapping her hands around it. "Would've done the same."
"They're on the table by the door. You can have them back when you leave."
"When I leave or if I leave?"
"That depends on how the next week goes."
She nods, taking a sip. "Fair enough."
The storm's still raging outside, worse than yesterday if that's possible. Through the window, I can't see more than a few feet. The world has contracted to just this cabin, this woman, and whatever trouble she might have brought with her.
"How bad is it?" she asks, following my gaze.
"Bad. This could last days."
"And you're prepared for that."
"I'm prepared for most things."
"I noticed." She looks around the cabin with an assessing eye, and I can see her cataloging everything. Not with the desperate hunger of someone planning to steal, but with the critical analysis of someone who knows what they're looking at. "You've got a good setup here. Really good."
"It works."
"More than works. The water collection system, the insulation, the way you've organized your storage,” she lists it off. “This isn't amateur hour. You knew what you were doing before the outbreak, didn't you?"
I don't answer, but she's already reading the truth in my silence.
"Let me guess," she continues, "some kind of outdoor profession? Forestry, maybe? Fire crew?"
My jaw tightens. "Something like that."
She has the grace not to push, but I can see her filing the information away. Too observant for her own good.
