“I think,” I say slowly, carefully, “that all oaths taken pre-apocalypse are null and void.”

Breath leaves his body in a relieved rush.

“And even if it wasn’t the apocalypse,” I add, “I would have asked Shawntelle to make an exception.”

His grin is huge. “She sounds like an amazing person.”

“I’m so lucky to have known her.”

Emmaline has given up sniffing stuff and begun stretching and yawning like she’s finally, genuinely tired.

“Time to head back,” I say, and I turn to go, but Trey grabs my hand, turning me back around. His hand is warm, and so, so much bigger than mine.

I think maybe he’s changed his mind about kissing, but he says, “I don’t want to move too fast. It’s tempting. You know, the apocalypse and all.”

“We have a lot going on,” I concede.

“But just so you know,” he says. His face is very close. I love that I have to look up at him. “Even if we weren’t in the apocalypse, I would have wanted to get to know you better.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Shawntelle was right, you know. But I wouldn’t hate it if you developed a healthy attraction.”

I swallow hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After talking with Trey, I expect to be buzzing awake all night, but suddenly, heavy footsteps are plodding through the bunker and the generator is rumbling and lights are flashing on and I’m blinking sleep from my eyes.

Wyatt and Manny have returned, both grinning in triumph, and even though I’ve known them for approximately three seconds, I’m so very glad to see them. I sit up and cover my yawn with a fist.

“Success!” Wyatt says. He’s hefting an enormous red backpack, stuffed full. Sales tags swing from one of the straps.

“The Tardis is loaded up and ready to go,” Manny says.

Across the room, Tanq rolls over on her cot, showing her back to everyone, and pulls her blanket over her head.

“How many propane tanks did you get?” Trey asks, rolling stiffness from his shoulder.

“Eleven!” says Manny. “Also, Wyatt brought back something for everyone.”

Wyatt beams, reaching for his backpack, unzipping it. “There’s a sporting goods store next to the barbecue place. So I grabbed this.”

He pulls out a brand-new, bright-orange basketball and tosses it to me. I gasp, snatching it from the air instinctively. The rough texture at my fingertips is so familiar, the rubber smell, the smooth black ribs. I roll it around in my hands, feeling that it’s a 29.5 inch ball, not 28.5 like I’m used to. But still.

I can hardly get the words out: “Thank you, Wyatt.”

He yanks a football out of his backpack next and tosses it to Trey.

“Thanks, man,” says Trey.