He shakes his head. “No. No. Something bad happened. I died, didn’t I?”

I falter, unsure as to how much I should really tell him. “You stopped breathing,” I explain. “But it was just for a little bit.”

“It being for a little bit doesn’t make it any better.”

I look away. My voice is quieter. “No, I suppose not.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean…” He pauses, frowns, stares at me intently. “You brought me back to life, didn’t you?”

I can feel the emotion lodging in my throat. The fear when I’d thought I’d lost him. The panic. The utter relief when he came back to me.

I nod, slowly.

Ryan looks down at his lap, frowning as though some deep thoughts are consuming him. Then he looks up at me again, leans forward, and quickly kisses me.

I’m completely taken aback. It was the last thing I was expecting him to do. But it felt wonderful, like electricity in my body.

The pleasant sensation doesn’t last long, though, because I’m suddenly hit by a pang of guilt. Ben. Ryan. I don’t know what I want or how I feel.

“It’s okay,” he says, studying my expression. “I’m not expecting anything from you. This world is too insane for relationships or dating. I just wanted to do something a normal eighteen-year-old guy would do, you know? Just in case I die properly next time.”

I let out a small laugh and smile shyly. “Okay.”

Just then, Zeke and Ben return with Stephan. He has a huge bruise from where I punched him, and looks incredibly angry. They’re carrying a box filled with cans of food. At last, we’ll be able to eat. Molly looks at Stephan coolly, as if to warn him that she has neither forgotten nor forgiven the gun incident.

“You must be the survivor,” Bree says with a friendly smile.

Stephan gives her a moody look. “That’s me.”

“Well, thanks for letting us stay here,” she adds, brightly. “We appreciate your hospitality.”

Stephan touches his jaw and winces. “I didn’t exactly have much choice.”

“Come on,” I say, peering into the box filled with can of beans and fruit. “Let’s eat.”

We gorge ourselves on the provisions, and as we do, we look over our map again, plotting out our route. Between mouthfuls of canned peaches, I look at Stephan.

“You said you knew a good route to Texas,” I say. “So, tell us.”

“The Mississippi is by far the safest route,” Stephan explains, pointing it out on the map. “You can follow its path all the way to Baton Rouge in Louisiana.”

“We have a boat,” I explain as I pop another piece of peach into my mouth. “It’s in Toledo Harbor. It would only take a couple of hours to head back and get it. We could send a small group.”