She dove for the bundle as another branch whipped a paper plate at her. It painted a skunk-tail of white along her back, but there was no straight impact. Still no bite. She dropped to her knees by the bundle and snatched it up, surprised at how heavy and awkward it was. When she tore off the wrapping her heart nearly froze. Inside the bundle was a waterproof canvas bag filled with water balloons, and tied to the front of it was the plastic face of a doll. A baby. The water in the balloons was warm, and Dahlia immediate understood. This was a child. Alive.

God.

In that moment the bundle in her arms was alive. The part of Dahlia that was the ironic and caustic chubby girl in high school wanted to scoff at the feelings that rose up in her. The aspect that was Dahlia, who created the Pack and survived the apocalypse, wanted to dismiss the bundle as a burden, as a liability.

But the version of Dahlia who was here now? The part that had chosen to step away from Trash and stand with Mr. Church had a completely different take. It wasn’t any maternal gene kicking in. No, that wasn’t her, and she knew it. Instead, she was feeling an urge that was both older and newer at the same time. It was the core survival instinct of the Pack needing to protect its own, particularly the young, because without babies the Pack died. Any pack, which is why everything from whales to wolves raised and cared for their babies. That was part of it.

The other part was the world was being emptied like a broken hourglass. If all the sands ran out there was nothing left to fill it. Time, at least for humanity, would end. Babies were proof of the potential to rebuild, regrow, reclaim.

And all at once Dahlia understood that this was the core of the lesson. Maybe of all of Old Man Church’s lessons. Protect the Pack but also make sure it grew.

This chain of logic and analysis flashed through her mind in a microsecond.

Then Dahlia was moving, the baby tucked against her side as she angled toward the closest edge of the clearing.