Cyrus gasped for breath, his chest aching with the exertion of his actions. “What was that about?”

“Please, don’t ever go up there again!” She gripped the front of his torn shirt, catching the long strands of his hair in her fists.

“Do you think I’d go up there again by choice? They’ll kill me!” He wanted to take her by the shoulders, dig fingers into her thin flesh as he shook her. But there was no sport in abusing her, he decided. That explained why he’d taken no pleasure in it before.

“If they kill you, they’ll kill me!” She clutched at him, her hold impossible to shake.

“What are you talking about?” He lowered his voice. In the past, he would have rather died than show sensitivity to a squalling woman, but she knew more than he did. As loath as he was to admit it, he needed her, and he needed her calm so she could tell him what she knew.

He sank to the second step, and she eased down, too, so they were squeezed side by side between the cinder block walls of the narrow stairwell. She hiccuped pathetically and wiped at her eyes. “If you die, I’m worthless.”

I was under the impression you were rather worthless, anyhow. “What do you mean?”

“They only let me live to watch out for you. They don’t know how to take care of a…human. They kept me alive so I could take care of you.” She seemed suddenly aware that their bodies touched, and she shrank from him. “If you die, they’ll kill me. I’m disposable. That’s what they told me when they killed Father Bart and Sister Helen.”

When she turned her head, he saw the bloody imprint of his teeth in her flesh. He looked away. “What if I killed myself? What if I went into the kitchen, took a knife and slit my wrists?”

“No!” She grabbed for him again, and he evaded her, though his bones ached with fatigue.

“So, you’re charged with watching out for my well-being, at the cost of your life. Yet you’ve done little to keep me from harming myself. There’s a razor in the bathroom, knives in the kitchen drawers. Which tells me you don’t care whether you live or die.” He studied her face as she absorbed his words.

She looked down, her voice barely a whisper when she spoke. “Would you kill yourself?”

Would he? It would end this miserable human existence. But they’d brought him back once from the realm of the dead, apparently with purpose. They could likely do it again. And it wasn’t as though he could lift a razor to slash himself. “No. I don’t wish to die.” He slipped down the next step, resigned not to look at her again.

“Neither do I,” she whispered. “At least, I don’t think I do.”