Page 71 of Bunker Down, Baby

“We’re all going to die,” Evan says.

Yeah. You might.

I stare at the ceiling harder.

They’re talking about me like I’m some kind of wild raccoon they’re trying to coax inside with a bowl of tuna.

They’re not wrong. If someone handed me a spoon right now, I would stab them. Probably Dean. Maybe Evan, just for fun. But under the irritation, something’s scratching at the inside of my skull.

They’re not afraid of me. Not really.

They should be, but they’re not.

And worse, they’re not playing. They’re serious.

Dinner. Conversation. Strip poker. Like this is just how the world works now.

I’m still chained to a bed, half-listening to a radio that says people are turning into animals out there. And in here they’re baking, laughing, and making plans.

And I hate, hate, that some part of me wants to know what they’re cooking.

I hear footsteps stop outside my door and I sit up. I don’t say anything. Just wait.

Because I don’t know if it’s her or one of them, but someone’s about to step in that door.

And the second they do, we’ll see if I’m the raccoon with a spoon, or if I’m the motherfucker they actually need.

I can tell it’s her before I see her.

There is no hesitation in her steps. They are not loud, not soft. Just confident. Like she owns the place.

Which, to be fair, she does. It’s her bunker. Farm. People.

Me.

The door swings open, and there she is. Maple Grace Monroe, the cheerful little warlord with a casserole dish and a delusion.

But she’s not carrying food this time, though. Just herself. Calm, collected, smile resting easy on her lips like this is casual.

Like I didn’t wake up shackled to a bed in her underground end-of-the-world Barbie bunker.

She sits in the chair across from me, same one she’s used before. Doesn’t say anything right away, just tilts her head, looking at me like I’m one of her livestock.

But not in a bad way. In a fond way.

“You hungry?” she asks after a beat.

I raise a brow. “You bringing me more food?”

“Nope,” she says. “I’m inviting you to come eat at the table. With the others.”

I stare at her.

She doesn’t flinch. “Everyone but Holden,” she adds.

I let that hang in the air a second. Then I say, “Why not him?”

She sighs, dramatically, folding one leg over the other like this is a parent-teacher conference and not a hostage negotiation. “Because he’s crotchety. Not as much as you, but close. And frankly? Both of you in the same room would ruin the whole meal.”

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