Page 61 of Chaos

The lobby is packed with soldiers when I arrive, chairs and sofas pushed aside to make room for stacks of what looks like construction materials. The carpet is darkened with tromped-in snow and mud.

If Ruby were here, the place would be strung with garlands and fir trees and snowflakes for the holidays. Without her, if we’re not careful, we’ll become a group of survivors clinging desperately to life.

Sheila’s two-room infirmary spread in my absence to encompass a whole line of rooms stretching down the hallway.

Alice, an original Thorney, pale and ethereal, greets me with a clipboard and writes down the reason for my visit, then directs me back out to a waiting room. She’s got her baby, Sella, tucked into a sling and napping against her chest, and I resist the urge to stare and ask a million questions.

Two women I recognize as ex-townees are here, too, their faces nearly touching as they whisper.

I settle into the chair, busy myself studying the scabs and cuts on my hands, and catch snippets of their whisper-gossip.

“That guy … The prisoner?”

“He’s dead.”

My chest and throat seize up.

The prisoner?

It hits me like ice water.

Yorke …

No. He can’t have.

He told me he got hurt with Jacquetta and Rey when they went out to check drop sites for the emissaries they sent out.

But how did he end up with them?

He was pressed in close when I drifted off.

But what if he never fell asleep? What if he got up after I was unconscious?

My mouth goes dry.

People already blame him for giving away bullets for information about me, for the continued hostilities with the Grey Caps, for the burning of town.

I don’t know when my morality shifted fromthou shalt not killtono one shall know,but it has.

When a door opens, I’m calm.

Len walks out, a small notebook tucked into the breast pocket of a Hawaiian shirt covered in yellow cactuses and purple llamas.

He’s an original Thorney too, one of Shasta’s crew we met outside DC and a detective before the plague.

He holds his arms out wide. “Frankie. I was glad to hear you’re back.”

I return his hug. “What’s going on with Scrag—” I wince, and then remind myself I have nothing to hide. I’mallowedto hate a man who repeatedly threatened me in horrible ways. I get to hate him. “That person in there?”

Len glances back at the doorway, which is firmly closed. “He died. I hear he gave you a rough time.”

I slide my hands into the sleeves of Yorke’s shirt. “Is it because of how I hit him? Did I kill him?”

I want him to say it.Yes, Frankie, it must have happened during the fight, because no one will blame me if he died. They’ll call it self-defense.

But Yorke?

Len shifts his weight, and I get the impression he’s watching me without appearing to watch me. “You’ve got a right to defend yourself.”

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