Mr. Casper is alive.

“I told you, Grace, I told you—they knew we were here—I knew one of them would try to get to us—I fucking knew it!”

I’m at the window first. Trace hands the flashlight to Harrison and pushes himself against me, forces me into the glass. We look past the edge of the auditorium roof, trying to see, searching—Mr. Casper, alive—but the lot is empty. Dawn edges up the horizon, but it’s not doing it fast enough. It’s not light enough to see anyone or anything.

“Where?” Rhys asks. “I don’t see him—”

“He was…” Trace nudges us away. “He—”

“How could you even see—”

“Shut up—”

“Listen,” Cary hisses. “Just listen.”

I press the side of my head against the glass and listen with everything I have. I hear car alarms in the distance. Grace takes a sharp breath in.

Trace spins around. “What—”

She points and I follow her outstretched finger to the crumpled shape of a man facedown on the pavement. I don’t know how we missed it at first, until I realize we missed it because we were looking for signs of life.

“No—no,” Trace says. “No—that’s not—he was alive—”

I squint. It could be anyone from here. I don’t know how Trace could have made out his father’s face in this lack of light. I’m too afraid to ask him in front of Grace.

“If he’s dead, infected can’t be far off,” Cary says. “Was he shouting?”

“He’s not dead! He was standing—he was up! He’s just hurt or something—he just—Dad! We have to go out—we have to bring him back in—we have to help—”

“Trace—”

I tune them out. The parking lot is empty. I look for others—the shambling, broken bodies of people we used to know surrounding the school again—but there’s nothing.

“Dad! DAD!”

Cary pulls Trace away from the window but Trace is made of the kind of energy people with hope have. He frees himself and shoves Cary against a row of lockers.

“Don’t fucking touch me—”

“You don’t even know it’s him—”

I hear it first and then I see it: Trace drives his fist into Cary’s face. It’s a dull sound, but I know it’s a sharp hurt. I know what it feels like. Cary’s knees buckle but he doesn’t fall. He rights himself and stands there, stunned, while blood trickles from his nostrils. He brings his hand to his face and stares at his stained fingertips and I see his anger building in a way I’m not sure anyone else can. It’s from his heart, in his veins. I almost want to tell everyone to back away but I watch, transfixed, instead.

“You’re useless—” Trace spits at him. “You fucking murderer!”

Cary tackles Trace and they’re a sloppy mess of fists and legs and Grace is screaming get off him, get off my brother!

Rhys is the one who separates them. He has to hold Trace down in the end by climbing on top of him and pushing his knee into Trace’s back.