Page 73 of Romancing in Rot

I jump.

Joanie stands a few feet away, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappear under her messy hair. She looks between me and Leon’s retreating back, then fans one hand dramatically at her cheeks.

I push past her and head straight for the creek.

Cold water.

I need cold water.

The creek cuts behind camp in a narrow silver ribbon, half hidden by tall grass and roots curling out of the bank. I crouch at the edge and splash my face. The chill bites into my skin hard enough to steal my breath, dripping from my chin onto the front of my shirt.

It helps.

A little.

I grip the edge of the bank, fingers sinking into cold mud, and breathe out slow.

Get it together.

Because whatever this is, it isn’t simple.

Not with everything at stake.

Not with him.

I push up from the creek, water still clinging to my skin, and head back toward camp, my steps slower than they should be.

Focus.

Gear up.

Move.

But my mind drifts anyway.

You already knew what you wanted.

My ribs tighten as Leon’s green eyes take up far too much space in my head.

Across camp, Barbara moves toward Bessy with an armful of breakfast supplies, her graying hair pulled into a loose knot at the back of her head. She nudges the camper door open with her hip, and before I can talk myself out of it, I follow.

The inside of Bessy is musty from too many bodies and leftover coffee. The air smells like toast crumbs, canned peaches, gun oil, and whatever floral soap Barbara hoards like it’s currency. Every cabinet is crammed with food, ammo, medical supplies, tools, and anything we might need to survive the next week or the next hour. There’s barely enough room to turn without bumping into something.

“Need a hand?” I ask.

Barbara glances over her shoulder and smiles. “Always.”

We move around each other in the small space, quiet and easy, stacking plates and sorting supplies. Plastic containers click together. A cabinet hinge squeals. Outside, someone laughs, then someone else tells Joanie to stop touching things.

The rhythm settles something in me.

For a minute, it almost feels normal.

But how do I ask her?

Barbara’s hands slow over the dish towel. Her eyes flick to my pocket, then to my face, like she’s been waiting for me to find the question.

“Jacob’s father wasn’t a good man.”