Let me in.

And then it stops.

“Get the barricade back up,” Rhys says. “Now—”

“Wait,” Trace says.

“What?”

“Wait.” Trace trains the gun on Cary, who is staring at his bloody, bitten arm. “Cary’s been bitten. Doesn’t he have to go outside too?”

Cary looks up. “No—I didn’t—it’s not—”

“We all saw it, Chen. You’re bitten.”

“Trace,” Rhys says.

Trace ignores him. His eyes stay fixed on Cary.

“Trace,” I say. “Think about what you’re saying—”

“But why? That’s what we just did to Baxter. Baxter’s infected. Baxter bit Cary. Cary is infected. It’s simple. Anything that risks me or Grace is not allowed to stay in this fucking building. Chen, tell me which way you want to leave.”

Cary’s face loses all color. He holds his arm out and blood trails down it, drips onto his shirt. He silently begs Trace for his life. Trace winces, but the gun stays aimed at Cary’s face. It is so ugly.

“I brought us here,” Cary whispers.

“Doesn’t matter. Baxter bit you and now you’re infected.”

“Give me the gun, Trace,” Rhys says.

“Back the fuck off, Moreno.”

“Come on. We can quarantine him until he turns. The nurse’s office.”

“We didn’t do that for Baxter. Why should we do that for Chen? After what he did to my parents? Give me one good reason why.”

“Because Rhys is right.”

Her voice shocks us, makes us quiet. Trace’s grip on the gun nearly falters. We all turn to her. Grace stands there, nervous but determined. She moves to Trace and puts her hand on his arm. He swallows hard and I think maybe he’s as scared at the idea of killing Cary as we are. But that doesn’t really mean anything as long as he still has the gun.

“Don’t even,” he tells her.

“They’re dead. It’s not going to change. Hey, look at me,” she says. Trace refuses to. He leaves her no option but to stand directly between him and Cary. The way she moves is almost holy; Cary stares at her like she’s a saint. And Trace—as soon as she’s in front of him, he lowers the gun and I can tell that even the millisecond he had it pointed at her has hurt him, scarred him. “They wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Grace. He. Is. Bitten.”

“But he hasn’t turned. If he turns—”

“He can do whatever he wants to me,” Cary says. He clutches his arm to his chest and I think—Cary’s going to die before me. We’ll lose Cary.

“Trace,” Grace pleads.