Page 8 of Haven

“If he said no, I don’t know what you want me to do about it. I don’t make those decisions.”

“Can’t you at least talk to him?” He pitches his voice very low. “He doesn’t like me for some reason. Maybe he’s threatened. I don’t know. But it’s a good idea and—”

“That’s not how we work here,” I say in a colder tone. “You don’t play Jackson and me against each other like you’re a spoiled kid and we’re your parents. Our priority is always what’s best for the community. We only have a few working vehicles, and once our reserve of gas is gone, there’s nothing to replace it unless we’re able to scavenge more. We’re never going to risk our resources on a run unless the reward is worth it. Liquor and tobacco are not worth it. If you don’t like our rules and our decisions, you’re welcome to leave. Otherwise, make your requests, accept the answers, and move on.”

Caden gets up with a scowl. “You don’t need to be a bitch about it.” The words are a mutter, but I’m obviously supposed to hear them.

Before I can think of how to respond, Jackson has gotten up from his seat, picked up one of his rifles, and casually walked over to slam the butt of the gun against the side of Caden’s head without even a flicker of expression.

It’s a bruising blow, and the momentum knocks Caden off his feet, but it’s not hard enough for serious injury.

Jackson looks down at Caden in a messy sprawl on the floor. “That was your only warning. Next time you’re out.”

Without even glancing over at me, Jackson collects the knives and guns he’s been working on and leaves the room.

I roll my eyes at Jackson’s straight back, broad shoulders, and tight ass in his faded jeans.

Caden hauls himself to his feet and hurries out of the room, holding a hand to his cheek.

I know in the world as it is now, physical violence is sometimes a necessity. It’s the only way to survive in a society that has lost the safety of cultural and ethical boundaries. But I prefer for the violence to remain outside our walls. It might be us against the world, but it’s not us against us.

But Caden has been getting to be a problem. There have been others we’ve had to evict because they were rabble-rousers or a potential threat to our peace here, and Caden might end up being one of them.

So Jackson might be an asshole, but I’m not really sorry that he shut Caden up.

***

IHAVE MY OWN ROOMin the house. It’s the room that’s been mine since my family moved onto this farm. It’s a pleasant room with worn pink-and-green bedding, maple furniture, and lacy curtains. Jackson took my parents’ room after my dad died, so the two of us are the only ones with our own rooms.

Sometimes I feel a little guilty about all the space that could be shared with others, but Jackson insists. He says the trappings of leadership—even superficial ones—strengthen our authority, and I suspect he might be right.

Besides, I like the privacy. This has always been my room, and I’m not going to give it up unless I have to.

There’s a relief that comes when I close my bedroom door at night. I can let down my guard for a little while.

I light a candle since it’s dark out now and the only other light comes from the moon and stars outside. In the shifting shadows, I manually pump water into my porcelain basin and use it to wash off the dirt and sweat and stink of the day. Then I put on a short pink cotton nightgown with ruffled straps—I thought it was the prettiest thing when I bought it at sixteen—and brush my hair.

It’s long now. I haven’t cut it since Impact. I could. We’ve got scissors, and a couple of the girls here are really good at styling hair. But I haven’t wanted to do it. It’s long and thick and wavy and a reddish-gold color. My eyes are brown, and my mouth is a little too big for my face. I look kind of pretty in the dim light. It almost surprises me.

I look softer than I do during the day in my normal work clothes and ponytail. As soft as I was when I was sixteen and used to read romance novels, daydream about exciting adventures, and cry when Jackson treated me like a spoiled princess.

I don’t think I was ever truly spoiled. My parents taught me to work hard and take care of myself. But they loved me more than anything, and they protected me from everything they could. The world had always been pretty easy on me back then.

I used to be soft, and right now I almost look that way again.

I shrug off the faint pleasure at the realization.

I’m only twenty-one. It should be normal to look pretty. But it doesn’t really matter in my life as it is.

After using the bathroom that connects to my room, I get into bed and stretch out under the sheets. I close my eyes and try to relax.

I usually work so hard during the day that it’s not difficult to fall asleep, but tonight my mind is whirling. It feels like lights are spinning behind my eyelids.

I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling in the dark room. There’s a faint glow coming in the window from the moon and stars. They’re not as vivid as they used to be in my childhood because of lingering ash in the air, but they’re still there.

I mentally review what I’m going to say to Jackson tomorrow about the trip for antibiotics. Then I think about Ham this afternoon. About Caden this evening. I turn over a few times, trying to get more comfortable.

Close my eyes but can’t get my mind to settle.

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