I roll my eyes. “You know relationships aren’t just about sex, right?” Sofia is right that the walls of Hope are thin enough that we can hear others make out, but I don’t care about sex. Or romance.

“Sure. Not my thing, but totally valid. Anyway, yeah, I’m afraid to get sick. I’m afraid to die.” She tilts her head. Her brown eyes sparkle. “I’m afraid to spend all my time with the rest of you rejects.”

I snort. “Join the club.”

I let the woods distract me. The wind still rustles through the trees like the world is the same as it ever was. The water from a nearby stream rushes over sloping rocks, and all around us, birds chatter. I try to remember where exactly I placed the trap. I guide Sofia around a clearing, too far to the east, back toward the narrow stream that’s downhill from here.

When we find the trap, it’s sprung, the bait is gone, but there’s no catch in sight.

“Fuck.”

I kneel down and reset the trap. I made bait ahead of time. Some of the carrots that were left in the garden. Peanut butter and crackers. The same things Mr. Podolsky used. Bits and pieces we can stand to lose, but not if I don’t catch anything.

I triple-check the trap for the third time, when Sofia places a hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go. Show me the next trap.”

So I do.

The next one is empty too. Something cold and hard settles in my stomach.

I breathe in deeply and try to focus. The air smells of wildflowers and decaying leaves, and it cloys my nose through the thin layer of fabric.

Sofia, to her credit, doesn’t ask me again if I know what I’m doing. Perhaps because the answer is spectacularly obvious. She follows me farther into the woods, and she talks about the last girl she fell in love with before she got sent here. She tries to keep her voice down, but she probably spooks any wildlife in the vicinity.

It’s not a bad thing. It’s not like we’re hunting with our kitchen knives—though we may have to figure out how to do that before long, if I can’t figure this out.

When we get closer to the third trap, I hear rustling and snarling and screeching. I raise my hand, and Sofia stops midway through her sentence.

I point.

On my cue, we both approach the trap from different directions, Sofia going the long way around and me inching closer from here.

Another few steps, and it’s clear what’s making the sound.

The third trap sprung, and it snared a raccoon. But the snare didn’t strangle it the way it did with Mr. Podolsky’s rats. Instead, the raccoon is struggling and hissing, even though he’s clearly wounded.

My stomach drops. The annoyance makes way for nausea—and regret. I shouldn’t have done this. We’re good, still. We have food enough to make it through another week or so. We can cut our rations further. I could’ve waited. I could’ve gone out then. I should’ve asked Isaiah to find me the latest information on snare traps instead of relying on my memory. I did have him look up wild garlic bulbs to remind me how to forage those, but—