"We did it." I glance at Stephan, hovering in the doorway with his hands in his pockets like he doesn't belong. Like he's not sure he has the right to be here, in this moment of desperate hope. Like he's afraid that now that the mission is over, there's no place for him. "Couldn't have done it alone."
The night is endless. Allie's fever spikes, then breaks, then spikes again. Each fluctuation sends my heart racing, each stabilization brings a rush of relief that leaves me shaky and exhausted.
I hold her hand and tell her stories about before, about her father, who died protecting us in year one. About the house with its blue shutters and the backyard where she used to catch fireflies in mason jars. About the world we lost and the pieces we're trying to rebuild.
Stephan stays.
His job is done. Payment more than earned, given the blood he spilled for us. Whatever debt he was trying to pay is settled. He has no reason to linger, no obligation to sit vigil over a child he just met.
But he stays anyway. Sits in the corner cleaning his rifle, watching over us with those gray eyes that see too much and show too little. A guardian we never asked for and don't deserve.
Somewhere around midnight, when Allie's finally sleeping peacefully and her fever has stabilized, I realize I've been crying. Not the wracking sobs of despair, but a slow, silent leak of relief that's soaked through my sleeve.
Stephan notices.
"She's going to be okay," he says quietly.
"I think so. The antibiotics are working. Another day, maybe two, and she'll be out of danger." I wipe my face with my other sleeve. "Thank you doesn't begin to cover it."
"You don't owe me thanks."
"I owe you everything."
He shakes his head. "You owe me nothing. I needed to do this. For me."
"For Sabrina."
The name hangs between us. He nods, slowly.
"Tell me about her father," he says after a long pause. "Allie's."
"Daniel." The name hurts less than it used to. Grief fades, even when you don't want it to. "Good man. Software engineer. Useless in the apocalypse—couldn't hunt, couldn't fight, couldn't start a fire to save his life." I smile despite myself, despite everything. "But he could make Allie laugh. Even when everything outside our door wanted to kill us, he could make her feel safe. He'd do these ridiculous voices for her bedtime stories, make up songs about zombies being afraid of her teddy bear."
"How'd he die?"
"Year one. Herd caught us between settlements. Fifteen, maybe twenty of them. We could have outrun them if we abandoned our supplies, but Allie was too little to carry and run." I close my eyes, the memory still vivid. "He drew them off. Ran the opposite direction making noise, yelling, throwing rocks. Bought us time to escape."
"He saved you."
"He saved both of us. That's all that mattered to him."
Stephan is quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then: "That's how it should be. Parents dying for their kids. Not the other way around."
Allie stirs. Her eyes flutter open, clearer than they've been in days. The fever has broken. The antibiotics are working.
"Mama?" Her gaze finds Stephan, and her brow furrows. "Who's that?"
"A friend," I say. "He helped save you."
Allie studies him with the terrifying directness of children, the way they look right through pretense and see what's underneath. She takes in the tattoos, the scars, the hard edges. Most kids would be scared.
"You have a lot of tattoos," she says.
"I do."
"Did they hurt?"
"Some of them."
