I think of the Caspers then, of Harrison. I know I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t let my mind go there but I do. If he had never been with Lily—is that the thing that saved me? That made him choose Harrison over me? Being her sister? If he had to make that call again, would he choose Trace out of spite? Or maybe Grace. Maybe Grace would be the one. I can’t stand the idea of that happening to Grace.

“Sloane, I know what you’re thinking,” Cary says, watching my face. “And I wouldn’t do that to either of you.”

But it’s not either of us that I’m worried about.

“We trust you,” Rhys says.

I glance across the room. Harrison is napping on the couch. I look at him and the only thing I can see is how dead he’s supposed to be. I wonder what it would be like if we’d gotten here without him. Less tearful, maybe. I wonder if we’d cry for him.

“Harrison could be right,” I say. “By the time the water in here runs out, the military could be reclaiming cities. Towns. It could be over by then.”

“I’m not staying here with Trace longer than I have to,” Cary says, keeping his voice very low. “I don’t trust him and I will never trust him.”

“But you’ll let him leave with us,” Rhys says.

“He’ll have other things to worry about than me out there.”

“What do you think, Sloane?” Rhys asks.

“I think we’ll probably die,” I say.

Cary closes his notebook. “Very uplifting.”

*   *   *

Later, Rhys asks if he can talk to me alone.

He asks me in front of everyone, when we’re at the table, eating. Can I talk to you? Alone? I say yes and it isn’t until Trace dog-whistles when we walk out together that I think maybe Rhys doesn’t actually want to talk at all and then I feel cornered by the idea of touching him and him touching me. It has to happen, doesn’t it? If it’s happened twice before.

We haven’t even been on a date.

And then I wonder if I owe him anything after what we did, if I have to touch him first. If it’s my turn to figure out how to make him feel electric. I have no idea how I’d do that.

We circle the building slowly, not talking. Every so often I catch him looking at me and there’s a question in his eyes each time he does but he doesn’t ask it and I can’t stand it, so I ask mine first.

“Do you want … do you want something from me?”

“What?”

“You want … something. Right?”

“What? No—Jesus. I just wanted to talk.” He sounds as flustered as I feel and I’m glad it’s too dark in the halls for him to see my face clearly.

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask feebly.