"Instead of thanking me for saving your life."
"The research is more important than my life. Did you save it?"
I understand that. Understanding it doesn't mean I want to engage with it.
"By the door. Ankle needs a week. Then you leave."
"A week?" She tries to sit up, fails with a wince. "I need to get this data to settlements!"
"Not walking out on that ankle. You'll reinjure it, slow yourself down, die somewhere nobody will find you for months. Your research will rot with you."
"Then help me get to the nearest settlement."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Not my problem."
She huffs. Glares at the ceiling. I wait. Conversations have patterns too, even frustrating ones.
"The data shows zombie herds migrating in coordinated patterns," she says, switching tactics. Her voice takes on a measured cadence—presenting research, hoping data will persuade where emotion didn't. "Someone or something is directing them. If settlements know when herds are coming, they can evacuate. Fortify. Save lives."
"Still not my problem."
"You're impossible."
"I'm consistent. That's different."
"I'm Kate. Kate Reynolds. Wildlife biologist, former park ranger. And you are?"
"Not interested in conversation."
"Finn," she says, reading my knife.
I sigh. "Finnegan MacLeod. This is my family hunting cabin, expanded post-outbreak, but I’m the only one left. I’ve been here alone for years. I supply settlements with meat but don't live in them."
She takes in this information silently. Thank God.
"Get some rest," I say. "I'll make food."
"Finn?"
"Finnegan. And don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this because leaving you to die would make me different than I want to be."
I go to the kitchen. Twelve steps. I count them every time. Have for three years, four months, and twelve days.
three
Kate
Threedaysinthiscabin, and I've learned more from watching Finnegan than from any conversation we've had.
He makes excellent venison stew—same recipe each time, ingredients added in the same order, stirred the same number of times. He checks my ankle three times a day at exactly the same intervals: 7 AM, 1 PM, 7 PM. He carves wooden animals in the evenings, always starting with the head, always using the same sequence of cuts, and if I interrupt him mid-carve, he starts over from the beginning.
He doesn't like changes to routine. The first morning I moved my chair closer to the window for better light, he moved it back without comment. The second day, I left my notebook on his carving table, and he placed it on the floor beside my bed with such pointed precision that I didn't do it again. The third day, I asked if I could use a different mug, and he stared at the mug I'd chosen for a full thirty seconds before saying, "That one has a chip on the rim. It could cut your lip."
He wasn't being controlling. He was genuinely concerned about the chip. I checked—there was one, tiny, barely visible. He'd noticed it as a hazard.
