Page 2 of Last Light

“You’re Layne, right? Layne Patterson?” Travis’s eyes look dark gray in the dim sunlight and across the distance between us. They search my face and then take a quick detour down my body.

They don’t linger on my chest even though my plaid overshirt is hanging open and my faded tank top is plastered to my breasts from perspiration. And they don’t rest too long on my lower body even though my old jeans are worn paper thin and riding very low on my hips. His gaze returns to my face and stays there.

It’s something, but it’s not enough for me to lower my guard.

I don’t respond to his question, but he must take my silence for an affirmation. He continues, “You had the blue Focus with the ornery transmission. I’m Travis. You remember me?”

My head inclines slightly.

His expression relaxes even more. “You wanna lower the gun?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’m gonna put mine down. Nice and slow.” He bends over as he speaks and sets his shotgun on the gravel with intentional care.

I feel better when he straightens up, but I’m not stupid enough to believe this man is now safe. He’s got a hunting rifle strapped to his back and a knife twice the size of mine sheathed on his belt.

He doesn’t smell like oil and cigarettes anymore. He smells like dirt and sweat.

So do I. It’s not something that bothers me now.

“You on your own?”

I don’t answer.

“You headin’ to Fort Knox?”

I don’t think I nodded, but he acts like I did.

“Me too,” he says. “You can stick with me if you want.”

My shoulders stiffen. “I’m not looking for company.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Not like that. I wouldn’t expect nothin’. Pretty little thing like you—you’re not safe on your own.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. But everyone I’ve ever trusted is dead or long gone. “How do I know I’d be safe with you?”

“I knew your grandparents. Your grandma taught me in Sunday school. I stuck with the town till the end. Wasn’t militia. Didn’t join a drove. You remember me there after we blew the bridge? I was with the hunters.”

I do remember him from a year or so ago when what was left of Meadows was hunkered down behind a guarded perimeter. I have images of him returning with deer or wild turkey more than once, even after the animals in the woods became scarce, sharing what he’d killed with everyone else, supplementing our rations.

He must see something on my face. His jaw softens. “I’m a decent guy, Layne. I’m not gonna hurt you or ask for anythin’ you don’t wanna give.”

I want to trust him so much that my hand trembles. It takes a conscious effort to hold the gun still. “Why didn’t you leave town with everyone else?”

His face twists so briefly I almost miss it. “I had a sick little girl. Wasn’t even five. Couldn’t leave her.”

I hear the loss in his voice—faint, aching, matching the weight in my chest.

Everyone who’s still alive has lost someone.

A lot of us have lost everyone.

“What about you?” he asks. “You stuck around for someone?”

“My grandma.”

“Her lungs?”

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