I snort; I can’t help it. “We’re all dying, Grace. Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“Besides, it isn’t just about revenge or about community,” Mackenzi says. She turns back to me, ignoring Grace. She smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s about justice. Don’t you want justice?”

Grace might be shooting daggers at the other girl, but Mackenzi doesn’t flinch. She holds out a lifeline to me. Something I can understand and cling to.

Because here is the awful truth of it all.

I do. I do.

I want justice for being dumped here.

For being left here.

For being hurt here.

If I could’ve gone to my small patch of garden, to our own cemetery, maybe it would’ve been different. If I could’ve cared for the graves and the memories, and felt my peace there, maybe I wouldn’t be so torn up inside. If I could talk to the dead and remind them of their stories, maybe I could remember myself. If I could find myself in music.

But even that was taken from me.

So, yeah, I do want justice. I want to taste revenge.

I don’t want to practice forgiveness ever again.

Twenty-two

Logan

My brain is buzzing after the meeting in the recreation room, so I have to rest before I find Isaiah. But in the morning, I track him down in the warden’s office, where he spends most of his time these days. He’s even brought his breakfast here.

He goes online when I ask, and I pass him notes I prepared ahead of time, the writing marred by the trembling of my hands. I sit by his side and watch him search and figure it out. It takes the better part of an hour for a single page to load, while the connection keeps disappearing and rebooting.

Isaiah opens his own notebook and writes down any details he finds. Of still-rising death tolls and ghost cities. Of states in disarray and people going hungry. Of food supply lines and production grinding to a halt. Watching Isaiah work, I realize with certainty that no one is coming for us. Everyone is too busy trying to make the best of a terrible situation.

And aside from making our own version of a cast, there is very little we can do to make Emerson’s life better. Fractured wrists have no easy solutions. Unless it’s a very clean break, Emerson will be cooped up for at least six weeks.

Isaiah frowns. He pushes papers back and forth as rhythmically as when I tap my fingers against my leg. “We could all be dead in six weeks.”

I try not to think about that.

Then it occurs to me—Emerson might need other things. Painkillers. Distractions. Better food than we have available. Grace and Sofia went out hunting again early this morning, but we can only survive on raccoon for so long.

I wait until after preparing lunch—with all of us sitting around three tables now, and Emerson sitting next to Casey out of habit. Until after clearing the plates and washing the dishes.