I turn the corner, and the town hall appears in front of me. Brightly lit, like a beacon in the night. Yellowed light shines out through the tall windows, and the porch is lit up too. A young Black man sits on the steps. He’s humming a song and doesn’t react to my presence at all. He may not even see me, as bright as his surroundings are.

I cling to the shadows and circle around the building. Pieces of paper hang on every door and every entrance: NO PLAGUE. NO SIGNS OF SICKNESS. All of them have words scribbled on them too.

I dash closer. They’re messages from survivors who hope to find loved ones (“Elin Newberry was here. Find me, Ray.” “If Kirsty Jameson reads this, I’m sorry. I can’t stay here.”). Notes of remembrance (“Miss you, Dad.”) and grief and anger (“The government is lying to us. All of this is a hoax.”).

Underneath is another note, on crisp paper. It has an official-looking letterhead and a lot of fancy words. I glance at the header then snatch it from the door and stuff it in my pocket. It crinkles and tears, and I pause to make sure no one is reacting to the sound.

If they even heard it, that is. When I push myself against the outer wall and inch toward the nearest window, a constant hum of voices drifts out. Discomfort crawls up my spine. So many people and so much louder than what I’ve grown used to.

I find the darkest corner and glance in, and what I see takes my breath away. It’s crowded. As crowded as the school was when I first came here. People are lying side by side in the big, open room. Some are sleeping on stretchers and pallets with blankets pulled over their heads. Others are sitting up and talking or playing cards. In the farthest corner, a young boy and a young girl are bouncing a ball back and forth between them. Along one of the walls, Christmas lights are strung, though it’s well past Christmas. Almost everyone is wearing masks here too.

It’s overwhelming.

A community of survivors, like Hope. But we number just over a dozen, and I guesstimate at least a hundred people here. Together. Safe.

I hate it, and I long for it.

In the center of the room, a lonely boy turns and looks at the window. He sees me. I know he does. My heart skips a beat, and I push back, into the night. But when he gets up to walk to the door, the light catches his face, and I pause.

Andrew?

Andrew who left with Hunter. Andrew, who is one of us. What is he doing here?

I stand frozen, questions swirling all around me, and before I find a place to escape to, he steps out. He’s wearing a torn and patched-up outfit that makes me aware I’m still wearing my uniform.

“Logan?” His voice is as soft and careful as I remember. He’s fighting back a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His hair has grown out, and he has a scar along his palm. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?”