I’m glad she feels the same way too.

Emerson lets themself lean back on their pillow, and they bring their broken wrist up to their chest. They close their eyes. “What about…the food?”

What about the fact that we were both near Emerson? If they were infected at any point dealing with our dead—are we too? What will happen then? With so few of us here, it’s becoming harder and harder to keep our distance in times of need, but we can’t afford to lose anyone else.

We can’t afford to lose Emerson.

And I don’t want to get sick.

Nia shrugs. “We’ll figure something out. The most important thing is for you to feel better first.”

And that is something I can help with. I tap the doorframe so Nia looks up, and I tell her, “I’m going to check in with Casey. See what we need to do to help Emerson.”

She smiles. “Good plan.”

* * *

When I leave Emerson’s room again, I pass the common areas on my way to infirmary. It’s busier here than it normally is at this time of day, though busy doesn’t mean what it meant three weeks ago. All of us together can barely fill a room now.

I push my back against the wall to avoid bumping into anyone.

The hallway is alive with whispers and questions.

“Do you know what happened?”

“I hear she stabbed Emerson.”

“She stole our food and destroyed the rest.”

“She must have been working for Hunter.”

To my side, obscured by the angle of the hallway, I overhear a conversation between Riley and Khalil.

“I always knew she was dangerous.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true though, isn’t it?”

I stand on tiptoe and crane my neck to be able to look over and past them and Isaiah, though I know what I’ll find.

Josie.

I expect to feel fear or revulsion, and I do. My breath catches. My hands go up to my throat to make sure no one is clinging to me. I don’t want her to look at me. I don’t want her to get close to me. I don’t want to be a target.

But another part of me sees that her hands are shaking. She has her head down, arms wrapped around her waist. She has a few stray leaves in her damp hair. Her shoulders are pulled up almost to her ears, and she walks forward without looking at anyone. I can’t tell if she’s angry or scared, determined or desperate. Maybe she’s all of the above.

She must hear the whispered accusations too, feel several pairs of eyes on her, because she stumbles.

“C’mon, keep moving!” That’s Grace’s voice, though it’s slightly muffled. She sounds tired. When she enters through the door, Khalil and Riley immediately take a few steps back.

Grace is supporting a pale and coughing Saoirse. Saoirse’s face is drained of color, and it makes her hair and her freckles only stand out further, and her head lolls back and forth. She doesn’t seem to be particularly conscious, only propped up by Grace on one side and Sofia on the other. Grace and Sofia are pale too—and weathered.