Page 18 of Romancing in Rot

Or at least takes one major damn leap toward it.

THREE

ALREADY?

CLAIR

Trish is trying to kill me.

By the time we break through the trees after the first of what Trish has threatened will be daily morning runs, my lungs are on fire, my bad leg hates me, and my thighs have filed a formal complaint with management.

Apparently asking Leon to train me was only step one.

Step two is Leon deciding my body needs “baseline conditioning” before he starts throwing me around like a very traumatized sack of potatoes.

He asked Trish to help with this part because, according to him, she knows how far to push without breaking me, and I need to learn my limits from someone whose hands don’t make my nervous system start screaming.

Which is thoughtful.

Annoying.

And unfortunately correct.

So now Trish is running in place beside me, barely winded because apparently medical professionals are powered by determination and their enjoyment of seeing others in pain.

“We’re building muscle,” she says. “You want to keep up in close combat, you need strength. Balance. Endurance. All that boring stuff people hate until it keeps them alive.”

I drop to the ground with a grunt. Cold dirt soothes my drenched back. “I miss when you only judged my bandage changes.”

“I contain multitudes. Just wait till we’ve done this for another couple of weeks.”

My legs lock up in protest.

“I’m sorry, Clair.”

I spread my arms out. “It’s okay. I’m cursing Leon in my head, not you.”

“No, Clair. I’m sorry.” Trish holds out her hand.

I groan. “One more minute.”

She grabs my arm and yanks me up like I’m a rag doll. For such a small thing, her strength is frightening. “Only a little further. You got this, my love.”

“I love you too, but I really hate you right now.”

Trish laughs as she pushes ahead of me on the wooded trail. “As long as you keep running.”

After ten more agonizing minutes, camp comes into view through the trees, a patchwork of vehicles, tarps, weapons, and weary people pretending not to be scared.

We moved camp after dark last night, pushing closer to Chicago along the route Leon has chosen. The new site sits tucked behind a sagging line of trees and the remains of an old access road, hidden enough to buy us time if anything wanders too close.

At least, that’s the theory.

Smoke curls from the firepit. Bessy, Jacob’s camper, sits near the center with her faded shell catching the dull afternoon light. Jacob and Lyla’s maroon Trailblazer, named Lucy, is parked nearby, half loaded and messy in a way that somehow screams both of them.

Home.

Trish salutes me as she turns toward her ER van. Still running.