Casey turns away from me and rests his head on his knees. His hands tremble. He’s pale with cold or pain too. “Fuck, Grace.”

What a harsh night. I always imagined we’d stay in touch after Hope. You can’t share your nightmares and night terrors with someone without forming a lifelong bond, and I liked the idea of both of us grown up and having it all figured out. Better.

I didn’t imagine it would end like this.

“I don’t want to die, Case,” I tell him honestly. “I’m scared.”

“I know, I am too.” He reaches out a hand like he wants to hold mine, even though we’re too far apart.

And even though we’re too far apart, I do the same.

“People survive, Grace,” he tries, not for the first time. His voice is as raw and ragged as mine, but I know it’s grief, not plague.

I manage a weak smile. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Eventually, my arm becomes too heavy, and I cannot hold it up any longer. I’ve never been as tired as I am now. My body is heavy and weak at the same time. Breathing is a struggle. I want to close my eyes.

“We’ll be okay though, Grace,” Emerson says, their words barely carrying through the garden. I force my eyes open again. They’re toying with their necklace. “We have food. We have coffee. We have each other. We’ll make it through.”

“You better,” I manage. “I didn’t go through all this trouble—”

“We will,” Casey interrupts me. “I told you. We’ll save ourselves.”

I smile. Another bout of coughing racks through me. I double over and clutch my stomach. Everything hurts. If my bones could crawl out of my body, I’m certain they would. Is this how all the plague victims felt? I hate it.

“Good, because I want you to work at a hospital when you grow up,” I say. I’d point at him, but I don’t want to move too much. My voice isn’t as strong as it was. “Be the coolest doctor or nurse on the block.”

“And you.” I turn slightly in Emerson’s direction. “I want you to find a place where you belong. Where you find your place in the universe again.”

“What about you?” Casey asks. He scrunches up his face and amends, “I mean, in an ideal situation?”

“Stop trying to make me laugh,” I scold, though it’s hard to sound stern when you’re constantly coughing.

He winces, so I talk.

I tell them about Paris and the Podolskys and my father and the picture. I admit I dreamed about going back to school, even though I’m still not sure if that was ever for me.

“You’d make an excellent therapist,” Emerson whispers.

I’ve always been more comfortable talking with others about their issues than admitting to my own worries and fears.

“Beyond that, I think…” I hesitate. I feel so fragile. “I’d want to create a home for kids like us. A place where they can feel safe and cared for and where they can grow.” A home like this, where my heart is. With the outcasts and the rejects and the survivors.