My boots come down on the floor, slow and cautious, as I sweep the light around the shelves.
Ransacked.
My heart sinks that bit deeper.
Muscle memory betrays me.
My finger lifts from the torch—and almost,almosttaps against the hard plastic of it. As if to use the code. As if Bee is still with me. Right behind me.
A ball lodges in my throat.
I swallow it back—but it doesn’t disperse. It only thickens, like it’s brewing a sob.
I force my mouth into a flat line, my insides solidifying, and I pause.
Like the image of the baby car seats and dog harness, I shove all thoughts of her out of my mind.
I have to.
I can’t let myself crack.
Not right now, not in the middle of a ruined city.
Not when Rust could be hunting me.
And not when my lungs are so constricted, I can’t draw more than a shallow breath.
I need to prioritise my pain and problems.
My lungs can’t afford a sob.
Jaw set, I push onwards, the light gently guiding me towards the counter.
Racks of merchandise are toppled all over the dusty registers. Dried leaves skitter along the counter. And with the breeze whistling into the shop, it’s all too fucking eerie, and I shudder.
I feel alone.
Starkly.
No one having my back, no one on lookout, no one to shield me.
It’s just me.
It’s a vulnerable feeling.
And it hesitates me as the light lands on the counter hinges. A lifting counter.
I don’t love the idea of going back there myself. And I don’t have a gun, or even a knife.
But the breaths hitching my shoulders are only going down as far as my throat now, and they jolt me.
If I don’t want to pass out, I need that inhaler.
Dread slows me down as I advance on the lifting counter. My steps avoid the packaging strewn over the linoleum.
But I’m not quiet enough.
The weight of my backpack shifts against the small of my spine; my breaths are too sharp and hitched and erratic; the rain jacket rustles as I crouch down to look under the counter—and aim the torchlight into the shadows.
