I know the instant my nearness affects him. I know it in the sound of his breathing, in the way the air catches in his throat, the way his mouth opens ever so slightly. I know it in the way his eyelashes flutter, how he sees me now through a haze of desire.

He pulls my face toward him, his lips brushing mine, and then he places my head against his shoulder. His arms wrap tightly around me and I understand how he needs me. I curl against his body, let him twirl his fingers through my hair.

And I close my eyes because a part of me still feels lonely and lost. A part of me doesn't know what future we can hope for in all of this, what happiness we can wring from these days. What future can any of us have if we are the last humans? The ones with the burden of carrying ourselves on, of re-creating the world?

Responsibility crushes around me. Responsibility for Travis, for Argos, to the promises I have already made to Harry that still bind us somehow, even though we never completed the final ceremony. My chest begins to collapse with the weight of it all, the pure panic of the possibility of failure.

I slip from Travis's arms and do not look back to see the questions I know must be in his eyes.

He says nothing to stop me.

Then I tear through the house for paper, my fingers shaking as I carry a small stack to one of the bedrooms upstairs.

As I stare at the blank page, I am at once awash in words but unable to find the ones I want to use. The words that can convey the turmoil broiling through me. And so I start by writing everything I wish I had ever said to Harry. And then to Travis. And to Jed and Cass. To my mother, my father, my future. I write it all, filling sheets of fine paper with cramped and hurried words that I don't care if I smudge.

When I'm done I take my stack of paper up to the attic and sit against the wall, a box of arrows by my feet. With trembling and ink-stained fingers I wrap each sheet around an arrow and tie it with string I found in a sewing basket.

Then I step out onto the porch and take aim. Growing up, all the children in our village are taught how to use weaponry, including a crossbow. The weapon feels familiar in my grasp as I run my finger down the shaft and load an arrow. For a brief moment I wonder how the paper and string will affect the trajectory, if it will still fly true.

I notch the arrow and then with a sharp thwang the bowstring snaps back into place, sending the arrow flying. I watch as it curves through the air before embedding itself in the skull of an Unconsecrated woman.