“I know. So you did good.”
“Thanks.” I give Ben a little smile. He’s not the world’s most loquacious companion, but what he says has impact.
At least it has impact onme.
I sit down so I can unlace my boots and then unhook the ankle holster on which I keep a second, smaller pistol.
“You should change into something more comfortable to sleep,” he tells me, watching my progress.
“Not tonight. I want to be ready, just in case. After tomorrow, I will.”
He accepts this without argument. I’ll sleep in my jeans and shirt the way I have so many other nights since I left my husband and we escaped the Capitol together.
He waits until I’ve stretched out on the sofa before he does anything. Then he drops a blanket on my lap, waiting until I spread it over myself before he takes off his own belt and ankle holster and unrolls his sleeping mat to lie down on the floor beside my sofa.
Because I’m looking, I see him undo the top button of his jeans.
With a soft snort, I ask, “Are you going to have to cut back on your rations?”
He gives me an appropriately defensive look. “You think I’m getting fat?”
“I don’t know. Seems like your pants might be getting tight.” I reach down to pat his belly. It’s always been mostly flat, and it still is. “Maybe not. You’ll do.”
He chuckles and gently moves my hand so it’s not resting against his abdomen.
Both touches—both my teasing pat and his mild removal—were harmless, casual, and completely in keeping with our established relationship.
But for some reason my insides down low tighten. It makes me feel squirmy, but I never squirm. Instead, I clear my throat to dispel the unexpected reaction.
“Good night, Annabelle,” he says from the floor after a few moments of silence.
“Good night, Ben. Don’t stay awake watching over me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Sure you wouldn’t.” I close my eyes and smile to myself. “Just think, if this is ever over, you’ll be able to take it easy and eat good. Maybe you’ll get a belly then.”
“Maybe so.”
“That will be a good day.”
“Yeah,” he says, something warm and poignant both in his tone. “Yeah, it will.”
At about noonthe following day, we get the alert that a two-truck unit is on the way. We’re ready when they arrive, using similar tactics to the day before. One of the trucks takes serious damage, and Jon takes a bullet in his thigh. But we win the skirmish without any real losses and come away with more guards for the cell, a lot of weapons and ammunition, and another working combat truck.
Yesterday’s good mood has escalated in the ranks tenfold this evening. While we don’t know for sure what will happen tomorrow, any stronger force they send would become public information. And I still don’t think Vincent will believe that’s worth the loss of the outpost.
So we might have done what we need to do here.
We’ll of course stay on guard and keep our lookouts in place around the clock, but we might be set up now for next month’s raid on the Arsenal.
The good humor of the evening spills out into music in the main room of the building where most of those not on duty have been camping out.
Vella plays the harmonica, and Sasha carries her fiddle around with her everywhere. Between that and a lot of singers, the music is pleasant and lively. They start with some popular folk songs and then take requests, an eclectic mixture of contemporary songs (all very tame since they’re regulated by the government) and pre-Fallspiritual and romantic songs that have managed to survive the collapse of the old world.
Ben and I come out to the main room as soon as the music starts up, and I go to sit next to Vella, who waves me into the empty space on the bench beside her. Ben sits on the floor at my feet since there’s no more room on the bench.
It’s been a long time since my people have been so exuberant. One couple, Jim and Carlos, get up to dance in the middle of the room. They’re soon joined by another couple, Tim and Bethy, whose over-the-top moves make everyone laugh.
