“You cracked the glass,” I point out. It’s more like a dent, really, with an impact center and lots of tiny cracks spreading out. “A couple more hits might do it.”

As he goes to retrieve the tire iron, our eyes rove the sky, the parking lot, the dense trees beyond, for any kind of movement. I stay crouched down, one arm around Emmaline, the butt of the rifle lodged against my thigh so that the barrel points to the sky. My weak legs shake from the effort, and my breakfast PB&J rolls around in my stomach.

Trey returns to the window. “You may want to get farther back,” he says.

“And you may want to hold on tighter.” But I do as he suggests, dragging Emmaline with me.

He swings. This time the glass crunches, and the dent turns chalky white. Another swing, and he lifts his shades and peers closer. “I’m through!” he says. “But it’s going to take a while to make a big enough hole.”

“We should have just shot it,” I grumble.

“Too loud,” he says, taking another swing. “And we need to save bullets until we can find more.”

He’s right, but I hate standing here, doing nothing, watching out for the thing that may or may not be watching us. I’m about to give up and go find something I can use to bang on that window right along with him when I see it.

Across the street, above the trees. A whisper of light. Shimmering like a mirage.

“Trey!” I whisper loudly.

He’s at my side instantly.

“What is it?”

But it’s already gone. Disappeared in the space of a blink.

“I saw something. Or I thought I did. It was like mist. But . . . shiny? A prism made of air.”

Trey says nothing.

“God, Trey, I’m sorry. I’m probably seeing things. I was so sick, and—”

His large, warm hand settles on my shoulder and squeezes. “I believe you,” he says in a low whisper. “That dragonfly thing was kind of like you just described. Metallic, but also a little translucent? Maybe you caught a glimpse of one.”

We stay like this a long time, watching the trees, ears pricked for sound. But there’s only the wind, the haze, and the ever-present caw and screech and twitter of birds.

When I can’t stand the tension any longer, I say, “I think the air is starting to smell better, at least.”

“A temporary improvement,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been at or below freezing for more than a day. All the bodies have been refrigerated. If we hit a warm snap . . .”

“Oh. Right.” I really shouldn’t have eaten breakfast this morning.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s finish that window and get inside.”