Page 89 of Romancing in Rot

By the time we break through the final tree line into camp, a fire glows low between the vehicles. Bessy sits tucked beneath the trees, curtains pulled shut, the old camper looking smaller than it did this morning. Max and the Trailblazer are parked nose out, ready to move if we ever find enough fuel to make that matter. Smoke curls from the coals and hangs in the cold air, carrying the smell of woodsmoke, canned food, and too many people trying very hard not to fall apart.

Home. Temporary, ugly, dangerous home.

Poppy sees Clair first. “Mom!”

She launches herself across the clearing and slams into her mother’s middle. Clair’s rifle shifts safely to her back before she wraps one arm around Poppy’s shoulders. She bends, presses a kiss to her hair, and closes her eyes for one small second. I look away, not because I don’t want to watch. Because I do. Too much.

Carlos and Luis stop before they fully step into the clearing. Wesker plants himself at Luis’s side, ears up, body tense, eyes sweeping the vehicles, the fire, the shadows beneath the trees. Smart dog. The rest of us walk into camp, but Carlos and Luis stand at the edge of it like the invisible line might bite.

I know that look. I wore it at thirteen, standing in Mom’s doorway with a ruined throat, a garbage bag of clothes, and no idea how to believe a house could be safe just because someone said it was.

Jacob slows and lifts one hand, palm open. “You’re good. No one here is going to hurt you.”

Carlos’s mouth tightens like he doesn’t believe that, but he wants to. Wanting makes him angrier. Luis looks exhausted enough to fold in half.

Before anyone else can crowd them, Mom carefully rises from her chair near the fire. She grabs two blankets from the back of her chair and walks over with her hands visible, understanding exactly what kind of kids need to see empty palms before they accept kindness.

“I’m Barbara,” she says gently. “That grumpy one with the map is Earl. The woman threatening dinner is Edith. The loud one is Joanie, but you’ve met her.”

Joanie waves with her spoon. “I made a great first impression.”

Carlos gives her a flat look. His split lip is swollen and dark with dried blood, jaw purple beneath the grime. He looks like a kid trying to wear a grown man’s glare over a face that still hasn’t lost all its softness.

Mom ignores the look and crouches a few feet from Luis, not too close, attention on the German shepherd. “And who is this handsome gentleman?”

Luis blinks, then glances down at the dog. “Wesker.”

“Well.” Mom’s smile softens. “Wesker looks like he’s had a terrible day.”

The dog’s ears twitch.

“So do you,” she adds, quieter.

Luis swallows.

Mom holds one blanket out, not touching him, not making it a demand. “You can take this or not. Food’s almost ready. Water’s over there. Nobody will take your things. Nobody will make you talk before you’re ready.” Her eyes flick to Carlos. “And nobody here has to earn a place by bleeding for it.”

Something sharp hooks behind my ribs. That’s Mom. That’s what she does. She makes room around broken places without pointing at the cracks.

Carlos stares at her for a long second, his shoulders still locked in suspicion, but he nudges Luis with his elbow. “Take it.”

Luis reaches for the blanket. Mom’s smile doesn’t change, but I know her well enough to see the victory in it.

Carlos stays near the edge of the clearing, shoulders tight, eyes moving like he’s still in the city. Left tree line. Right. Vehicles. Back to the trees. His hand never gets far from his weapon, and every time a branch cracks somewhere beyond the firelight, his whole body shifts toward the sound. He is still running. His feet have stopped. The rest of him hasn’t.

Luis sits on the ground near Carlos’s boot, blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, Wesker pressed against his side. The dog keeps his head on Luis’s thigh, but his ears never stop moving. After a while, Luis starts to drift. A little closer to the fire. A little closer to Poppy. A little closer to the warmth of other people trying not to be terrifying.

Edith fusses over a pot set low over the coals, waving a spoon at anyone who gets too close. “If you touch it, you’re cooking next time,” she warns, smacking Earl lightly on the knuckles when he reaches in anyway.

“I’m just checking quality,” Earl grumbles, rubbing his hand.

“You’ve been checking quality your whole life,” she shoots back.

He snorts and drops into a chair beside her, muttering something about respect. Edith ignores him and stirs what looks like a questionable combination of pasta, Italian seasoning, canned tomatoes, and green beans. End of the world cuisine. Somehow, she’ll make it edible.

Mom returns to the fire and sits near me with her knees angled toward the coals and her eyes moving over everyone. She takes in Carlos at the tree line, his clothes dark with dried blood, Luis near Poppy, Clair’s bloody sleeve, my torn pant leg, and the empty spaces none of us are talking about yet.

Her hand lands on my wrist. A question.