The body on the floor.

I aim the light back on it and in the time it took me to do it, he is up, on his knees, his palms pressed against the floor.

He stares at me. The expression on his face is odd. The fresh clothes I last saw him in are tattered. He is filthy. He left here clean and came back filthy. Came back alive.

“Mr. Baxter,” I whisper. “Mr. Baxter, what are you—”

“I told you I wasn’t infected,” he says. “I told you.”

He reaches for me.

I run.

I know it’s stupid dangerous to turn my back on him, that I shouldn’t leave him in the hall but I have no other choice. I burst into the auditorium and I’m shouting, Baxter’s here—he’s here! And no one asks me if I’m imagining it this time. Trace gets the gun from wherever he’s been hiding it and there are more flashlights, spastic beams of light dancing all over the room. I tell them what Baxter said to me before I fled. I told you I wasn’t infected. I told you.

We storm down the hall, around the corner to the place where I found him, and I expect him to be gone but he’s still there—like I first saw him.

Flat on his back. Crumpled.

We stop.

“Mr. Baxter?” Cary calls.

We wait for him to move, respond. He doesn’t.

Cary steps forward but Trace cuts in front of him, the gun out. He holds it over Baxter’s prone, still form. Cary goes to the basement door and peers inside.

“Why did he come back?” Harrison asks. “Why?”

“He’s not infected,” I say. “He can prove it. He wants shelter.”

Grace kneels beside him. Baxter’s eyes are half-open, glazed. He blinks and moves his lips but no words come out. She leans forward.

“Mr. Baxter? Can you hear me?”

“We can leave him here.” Trace lowers the gun. I step in front of him and crouch behind Grace. Trace circles Baxter until he’s behind us both. “We’re going. He can have the school.”

“Holy shit,” Cary says softly. “Did you see this?”

He runs his flashlight over the floor, revealing the dirty gray tile. It’s streaked with blood. He follows the trail all the way back to Baxter and I can’t figure out what part of him it’s coming from, what part of him is open. Baxter closes his eyes.

He stops breathing.

“Oh, God,” Grace whispers. She brings her fingers to Baxter’s neck to feel for his pulse. She looks up at us. “He’s cold.”

“Grace,” Rhys says. “Get away from him—get away from him now—”