I turn, finding her mostly dressed now. Dark jeans. White tank top halfway on, revealing a strip of bare midriff.
“Was it stupid? Probably.” She yanks the tank top down. “But I didn’t want to die in a half-torn wedding dress that we definitely can’t bring back and weren’t able to afford to begin with. Like you said, it didn’t fit me anyway.”
Her voice makes me pause. The bitterness. The resignation.
“I didn’t mean—” What did I mean? I barely remember saying anything about her dress. “It came out wrong.”
“It’s fine.” She wipes at her eyes. “Let me get the blanket, then we can get back. Amelia felt cold, so…”
I follow her gaze to the large comforter folded at the foot of a sofa. Suddenly, exhaustion hits me like a physical blow. Looks comfortable. Maybe a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.
“Can you watch the door for a minute?” I nod toward the entrance. “Just listen for any sounds, tell me if you hear anything.”
A loose strand of hair falls across her face. “You’re tired?”
“Problem?” I drop onto the couch, my body sinking into cushions that feel like clouds. Every muscle aches, tension knotted between my shoulders.
“No.” She grabs a wool jacket hanging on a nearby hook and drops to sit with her back against the door, knees drawn up to her chest.
Not looking at me, just staring straight ahead at nothing.
I close my eyes. The letter opener still clutched in my hand digs into my palm, a reminder that we’re not safe. That I need to stay alert.
My breathing slows.
Just one minute…
Music filters through darkness. Soft, melodic. A woman’s voice humming a familiar melody I can’t place. My eyes snap open to find the room has darkened, shadows stretching across the walls.
What the…
Dakota sits exactly where she was, back still against the door, humming quietly to herself. A song that tugs at some forgotten memory.
“You should be listening,” I say, my voice rough with sleep, “not making noise.”
She meets my eyes, hers still a bit red-rimmed. “Multi-tasking.”
I rub my eyes. Fuck. I don’t sleep. Ever. At least with another person in the room and danger right outside the walls. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked like you needed it.”
“How long was I out?”
She shrugs, the jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “Been maybe thirty minutes or so.”
“Thirty—” I run a hand over my face, feeling the grit of dried sweat and blood. “Cameron and Sienna must be wondering where I am.”
“No zombies knocked. That’s something.”
Her attempt at humor catches me off guard. A woman who just killed infected with a candlestick, sitting guard while I slept, still able to find something resembling a joke.
She stands up and walks over to me, reaching for the comforter.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She freezes. “What?”
“Are you okay?” I repeat. “After what happened in the chapel.”
