He wasn’t that good, if she was calling him out on it.

“It’s not a lie,” he said. It was a half-truth. Close enough. “I do think that people would be more understanding if you communicated with the outside world occasionally, though. People are scared of what they don’t understand.”

She tilted her head and said nothing.

“I think it will be helpful for me to tell the story when I get out of here,” he said. “People will be interested to know what it was like in here.”

“They’ll probably be more scared of us than ever.”

“I can always find the good parts of a story.”

She gave him an amused look. “I have no doubt.”

He heard the murmured sound of voices and music up ahead. The glow of lights was brighter.

They turned a corner. He stopped.

Maisie, a few steps ahead of him, turned to see him frozen. “What?” He kept gaping. She followed his gaze.

The street was crowded with people. They milled around, some of them carrying cups in their hands. Two women played guitar on the corner, and a few people were helping to sweep up glass and debris from a bombed building.

Giant bright billboards flashed over the buildings. An old music video played on one. An advertisement for a local brewery was on the other.

A man whizzed by on a scooter, wearing a pair of goggles and a bright pink mask.

“What?” Maisie asked again.

“I just…” He was trying to remember what he’d read about the quarantine zone. Unreliable electricity, mostly powered by solar and wind. Crumbling infrastructure, left over from pre-virus era. Strict curfew. Gangs rule with an iron fist. Executions in the street.

“Is there a curfew?” he finally managed.

She looked at him strangely. “No. Does the US have a curfew?”

“No, I’d just read that you did.”

“Spencer territory has done that in the past. Not sure if they still do.”

“Oh.”

A group of men were helping put together a broken picnic table outside a bar, and Lennon watched them, still trying to process this version of the quarantine zone.

“You thought it was a real shithole in here, didn’t you?”

His gaze snapped back to Maisie. “I, uh…”

She rolled her eyes, a spark of amusement on her face. “Come on. My apartment’s not far.”

Lennon followed Maisie to a five-story apartment building. It appeared the entire street had gone untouched from the bombings. It was quiet and dark, most of the streetlights out.

Her apartment was on the top floor, a one-bedroom with huge windows that showed off part of the city. He eyed the plush brown couch in the living room, hoping that would be his for the night.

Maisie walked into the kitchen, flipping on the light. She had a small table that was covered in clutter—papers, a few empty bottles, books, and a laptop.

Something fell to the floor with a plop, and his eyes followed the sound. It was a piece of bloody bandage from her arm. It had fallen off and landed on the kitchen floor.