—Sister Mackenzie’s Sunday school lesson

Erin offers to show me around the ALC, and Nick gives a half-assed excuse for why he can’t come along and disappears.

“He’s…,” Erin offers, the scrunched expression under her floral mask telling me she’s stepping carefully. “He’s got a lot on his plate right now. Stay here, okay? I’ll get you some water and a change of clothes.”

She asks what underclothes I use, and I turn red as I ask for boxers and a sports bra.

In exchange, I get a bucket of murky water, a rag, and an outfit a size too big.

“The water’s safe,” she assures me. “Just used a little, is all.”

By the time I’m done washing myself, the water is disgusting. I stare at it for too long, because now that all Dad’s blood is gone, I’m realizing I no longer have anything to remember him by.

Erin gathers me when I’m done changing, noting my freshly washed hair and clean face with a soft tilt of her head. “Looking better already.” I’m glad I look better. I had to resist the urge to rinse my mouth with the blood water, as if that would get out the taste of the Flood. “Ready?”

Walking into the ALC is like walking into a funeral home.

The boy’s death has gotten into the walls and under the floorboards of this place. He lurks behind faded pride flags and flyers advertising STD tests and water-restriction protocols. He’s even made his way between the wires of an ugly ham radio sitting in a back corner of the lobby. Teenagers and young adults of every shape and size have huddled together, refusing to look up. One mends cloth face masks in silence. Another slumps by a barred front door, resting their forehead against the wall.

“Most of us were here on That Day,” Erin whispers, and I make note of the proper term to use. She shows me around the gaunt kitchen and food pantry. “We had a great summer program for at-risk teens. So when everything happened, a lot of kids just didn’t leave.”

She takes me to the chalkboard near the barred front door, where people volunteer for chores like cleaning, cooking, and guard duty. There are about forty names. One section is separated: the Watch. I recognize all the names written there. Nick, Aisha, Faith, Cormac, Salvador, and a fresh smudge. Cormac must be the sunburned redhead I remember cutting off ears. The smudge is the dead boy.

“I could’ve gone home, I guess,” Erin says, gesturing for me to follow. “But I was too worried about everyone, so I stayed behind. You can see how well that went. At least it’s easier to transition when the rest of the world is gone?” Someone steps aside to let us down a narrow hall, eyes downcast. Erin’s voice is quiet with sadness. “I mean, all the hormones are either expired or spoiled, but at least there are no transphobic relatives to worry about anymore.”