Just like that, my relief is gone and all the tension of the last few days settles back around me so fast I stumble under the weight of it. As he ushers me through the back door of the pharmacy, I glance over my shoulder, certain that something watches us, but the world is silent and still.

The darkness inside is muggy and stale—a big improvement. He closes the door behind us and snicks the deadbolt into place. I stare at the thin strip of light along the top edge of the door. The sound of his breathing fills the tight space, loud like a stormy wind—or maybe it’s been so long since I’ve heard another human breathe that I’ll have to adjust all over again to this not-silence.

Emmaline whimpers, and I realize I’m trapped with him now. A total stranger. Maybe this was a bad idea.

He shuffles around, bumps into something, and light sears the darkness. He holds an army-green plastic lantern. It says “Camp Lamp” in red letters on the side. He sets it on a round table surrounded by folding chairs. It’s just bright enough for me to see the small fridge off to the right, the ragged love seat to the left, the sleeping bag rolled out in the corner. We’re in the employee break room.

He whips off a leather glove and holds out his hand. “I’m Trey. Trey Dawson.”

Familiarity at his name pricks at the back of my brain. I stare at his outstretched hand, thinking of all the pandemic PSAs when I was a kid. Six feet apart. Practice social distancing. Then again, we just broke all those rules in the alley, and my blood is probably swimming with antibodies. I take his hand and give it a firm shake. “Paige Miller.”

Emmaline is wholly absorbed in the scent of his boots. I add, “That’s Emmaline.”

“Paige,” he says, as if testing it out in his mouth. “Emmaline. Paige and Emmaline.”

“Trey,” I say, and we’re both grinning like idiots again.

“Thought I was the only one left,” he says. “Thought . . . just me and bodies and birds and . . .” His voice and his gaze trail off into nowhere. The meager light of the lantern turns him into an imposing silhouette. Maybe I should be terrified of this stranger, but I’m not.

I swallow hard. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Hey, are you hungry? I’ve got beef jerky, canned soup—no way to heat it up, but you know, it’s food. Pretty much all the Pringles you can eat. Enough Red Vines to do a Script Ohio.”

The earlier familiarity is beginning to crystalize. “You’re from Ohio State?”

His smile dies. “Would’ve been a freshman there next year.”