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I exhaled slowly and kicked the bike into gear, steering us onto the longer route that circled London.

Dusk found us in an abandoned housing estate, Keaton easily taking down the three biters who’d taken up residence in the house we claimed. While he secured the doors and windows, I wandered through the rooms, sifting through the remnants of lives left behind.

Whoever had abandoned this house had done so in a hurry, clothes spilling out of every drawer in both bedrooms, one an adult’s and one a child’s. You learned to tell the difference between a house that someone had ransacked and one whose past inhabitants had simply left.

A photo in a frame caught my eye, and I picked it up, examining the couple in the faded photograph. The man had red hair and freckles, the woman long, dark curly hair. The child at their feet didn’t look any older than five. All three were smiling, and I wondered how long before the apocalypse they’d taken the picture. Years? Months?

“We’re as secure as I can make it,” Keaton said as he stepped into the room. “Where I couldn’t block an access point, I’ve booby trapped it so we’ll hear if anyone comes in.”

“Good job.” I showed him the photo. “I hate finding shit like this.”

He barely glanced at it. “Why?”

“Because it makes me wonder what happened to them.”

“They’re dead.”

I tapped the boy. “He might not be.”

Keaton looked longer this time. “I would think the odds are firmly stacked against him. Your grandma’s one in a million. Maybe even one in ten million. She was immune, and she was lucky.”

My hand found the horseshoe pendant at my neck, the one she’d given me when I wasn’t much older than the boy in the photo. I’d never taken it off except when the chain broke. Oz stealing it had pissed me off more than I’d admitted.

I placed the photo back where I’d gotten it from, taking care to line it up with the marks in the dust so it was in the same place. “I wonder why they didn’t take it with them.”

Keaton’s nonchalant shrug made me feel like we’d swapped roles. I was supposed to be the one who didn’t care about anything. Not him. I followed him into the bedroom, Keaton stripping the bed. Dust rose in a choking cloud that had me covering my mouth with my hand.

“Serviceable,” he muttered.

“Who’s chaining who up tonight?” My attempt at a joke fell flat, Keaton not even cracking a smile. This wasn’t the Keaton who’d left my grandma’s house earlier. This was a man consumed by his mission, who could no longer think past his prime objective.

He left the room and went downstairs. After a pause, I followed, finding him in the room where I’d stashed my bike. He’d shoved a tall dresser in front of the window. Keaton was bent over, sorting the food we’d brought with us into piles. Although it was impossible to tell what categorization system he used.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Imagine something for a moment, would you?”

He didn’t look up. “Depends on what it is. I’ve never had a great imagination. I blame not being able to read and write.”

“What if we didn’t go to Dover? What if we just… turned around and went back?”

His head lifted slowly, as if the words needed extensive processing time. “Back where?” His voice was devoid of emotion.

“I don’t know. To my grandma’s, maybe. For a while, anyway. You liked it there, right? It’s safe, and we got to―”

I didn’t get any further before Keaton surged to his feet. “So you’re a paragon of fucking virtue now, are you? One psycho scientist rattles you and suddenly you want to change, and I’m supposed to fall in line with that.”

“I never said that. I just wanted you to consider another option.”

“One that makes me forget about the bastard who killed my sister.” His jaw tightened. “I get it. She’s not your sister. You never met her, so she means nothing to you.”

I shook my head. “It was just an idea.”

“It was a terrible idea.”

I chose my next words carefully, knowing I’d made a complete hash of this so far. Lying was easy. Being honest was much more difficult. “Is it so terrible that I don’t want you to die? Everything you’ve said makes this sound like a suicide mission, like you don’t give a fuck about what happens once you’ve avenged your sister’s death.”

“I don’t. Why would I?”

When he left the room this time, I didn’t follow. So this was what rejection felt like. Like you worked up the courage to offer something you never had before, only to have it slapped out of your hands and told it was worthless. Well, screw him. I didn’t need him. I didn’t need anyone. I’d get him to Dover, and he could get on with the business of killing himself.