“I know. It’s just…sinking in.”

“Chris died?” Alex says. Erin squeezes her eyes shut like she can will it not to be true if she just tries hard enough. “I thought I saw him—”

Cormac says, “You didn’t.”

Alex sighs. They spent most of the night trying to find a good place for the ham radio, like putting down a baby for a nap. At least it’s still in good condition. Not great, but it turns on, and that’s what matters. They’re probably the most put together of us all right now, although that might be because adding one more thing to mourn doesn’t change much.

“Do you think we can fix the fence?” Sadaf asks, holding Aisha’s arm. I can’t tell which is supporting the other.

“I don’t think the fence really matters, does it?” Faith says. “What if they come back?”

Cormac’s eyes flicker to me.

“We’ll discuss that later,” Nick says. “Right now, we need to focus on what’s in front of us.” He shakes his hands, almost like he’s brushing dust off his jacket. I recognize the motion, and I’m sure everyone else does too, but he starts giving orders like always. Sadaf and Alex still have work to do in the bank. Erin heads back in to grab extra people for sniper duty, since we might have become a target in the night, with all the fire and smoke. Salvador is put in charge of recovering what’s left of the kitchen; Faith, the storage rooms. Aisha and Cormac each get a gun, directions to scope out the surrounding blocks, and a map from Micah detailing any traps, just in case they can bring back extra food for the night. We’re going to get hungry, and quick.

I get to deal with the bodies. With Nick.

Downstairs is a charred mess. Dust from the fire extinguishers coats the floor, and we leave footprints in it as we walk. Some of it has settled on the bodies, like a gentle flurry of snow resting in hair and the creases of agonized faces staring up at the ceiling. A pair of open eyes even has dust on top, like cataracts. It makes my face itch.

We count fifteen dead. Six Angels, eight of ours, and the Grace. I know everybody whose bodies are recognizable, and about half aren’t. My first thought—we won’t have ears for some of the Angel kills; they either melted in the flames or were eaten by the Grace. The second—what the fuck is wrong with me.

I stand by the twisted, burned mess of bodies lying in the lobby, right in the midst of the broken front door, and I press my lips to my knuckles. I pray until Nick comes over, brushes my shoulder, and nods for me to follow.