A few minutes later, we’re back in the break room, me sprawled in the love seat and him in one of the folding chairs. I used the tiny employee restroom to change my adult diaper—which is now wadded up in a plastic bag—for a tampon and maxi pad. Emmaline laps happily at a lump of wet dog food that Trey plopped onto a plate for her. I’ve finished my Snickers bar and popped some Advil, and now I’m responsibly eating a bland piece of whole wheat bread and washing it all down with bottled water. Cramps tighten my lower belly, but they’re not too bad.

“So what part of town are you from, Paige Miller?” he asks.

“Clintonville.”

He’s silent a long moment. Then: “A big chunk of Clintonville blew sky-high yesterday. You can still see the smoke.”

“Came down the sewer line. Gas, I think. I barely got out. My house . . . my . . .”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. What about you?”

“Northwest Columbus. Not far from here.”

“And your home?”

“Too many dead people. I had a little sister. Teena.” He slumps over like a man three times his age. “I watched so many people die, but she was the last. After that, I tried to . . .” He changes his mind about what he was going to say. Straightens. His voice is stronger when he adds, “There wasn’t any food in the house. So I came here. Had a key to the back. I’ve been working here two years. Just promoted to assistant manager. Didn’t know where else to go.”

Seems to me it’s an accomplishment for a high school kid to become assistant manager at an Upper Arlington pharmacy.

“Did you get sick?” I ask.

“Nope. I seem to be immune.”

His words give me a stab of hope. If he’s immune, maybe others are too.

He lifts his chin in my direction. “You got sick, though, didn’t you? When I first saw you, I thought you were a zombie.”

“That bad, huh?”

His eyes widen. “No! You look great for a zombie. I mean—”

“I was unconscious for six days. Woke up attached to an IV. My mom is—was—a nurse. I think she nursed me as long as she could, and it saved my life.”

“Wow,” he breathes. “You’re the only person I know of who actually recovered.”

“I don’t know why Mom didn’t just take me to a hospital, though.”

“The hospitals stopped accepting people pretty quick,” he says. “They didn’t have room, and all the doctors and nurses were dying. It happened so fast. People died on the way to the hospital, and the roads were a mess. So the National Guard came, and they made everyone stay inside, but then they all died, too.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“So we’re it? The only ones left?” I mean it to sound flippant, but it comes out high and squeaky.