Almost a year earlier:

  It’s my day for laundry, which I actually don’t mind. I like the simplicity of it. The Community has come up with a system. Each bin is labeled by an office number. The members who have been chosen for laundry duty that week go around and collect the baskets and bring them to the Laundry floor. Laundry is on the fourth floor, and since we needed to bring in water from the river without a working elevator—it’s not an easy task.

  My leg is feeling better this week. I can put weight on it and only use a cane now. Though I miss being outside. But beside the rooftop, it’s still too dangerous for me to leave the building according to Barclay. And since he pretty much saved my life, I feel like I should listen to him.

  So one of the other members, Maggie, gave me a chair and set me up in the boardroom with 15 bins of laundry. Of course, these 15 are only one floor, but it’s a start. I take the first bin and dump it out on the table, careful to not let any stray socks fall to the floor because that would require moving.

  I start folding, glad to have the room to myself. There’s always the chance that someone might say something about the future if I’m around others. And then there’s the pain.

  It changes sometimes. I’ve felt fire again, similar to the first. But I’ve also felt being shot, stabbed, suffocated. The pain passes quickly, but it’s the memories of the dreams at night that haunt me for days afterwards.

  After the first time, I had found the name of the gentleman that going to the border with his fiancée to get married. Tom. I couldn’t convince him or his fiancée, Sara, to stay. So they had left a few days ago.

  I sobbed for over an hour, until my throat ached. Guilt still stabs me when I think about it.

  So I was trying not to think. About anything. So I folded. Jeans, shirts, underwear. I folded and folded until half the bins were piled high in clean and organized clothes. It felt meaningful, and it felt good to be doing something.

  A few weeks later, I start trying not to sleep. It works for a full day and half until I’m pulled off of kitchen duty for staring at a pot while it boils over. I am told to sleep.

  Instead, I scream at someone in a random office hallway that they should pay more attention when they go out on supply runs. I was so sleep deprived I couldn’t even remember what type of pain had lead to that outburst.

  I get handcuffed in my room for 24 hours, and a guard takes me to the bathroom. I am told to sleep again.

  But instead, I leave the compound and the office entirely with a backpack and go out on my own. I sleep outside or in abandoned fast food places. I wake up screaming once and scare some of the others that let me share their space. They tell me to leave, so I go back to the office. They let me stay, on the premise that I am to behave, and once again I am told to sleep more.

  So I give up. I do go to sleep, but I am terrified every night. The anticipation makes me want to stay awake, but I have a new routine.

  Now that my leg, head, and ribs are all healed, I’m assigned a sleeping floor instead of the hospital space. It's lower, with the hospital on level eight, my new room is level five, and sometimes I miss the view of the higher floor that I had stayed on for months.

  And I start attending fitness classes. Mandatory if I want to officially join the group. And I love it. People do not talk about the future when they are doing pushups.

  I do not think about the future when I am doing pushups.

  For six weeks my body constantly hurts. But I sleep more deeply, and there are some blissful nights where the dreams do not come. Still, I wake with vague sense of loss and panic and pain—but I do not remember why. Life become easier. Life becomes routine.

  I workout every morning at 7:30am. After a cold sponge bath and a change of clothes, I meet Cher for breakfast at 9am most mornings.

  We only talk about things in the past or present tense. And I find out quickly that Cher is one of those people that can make a room feel calmer just by being in it. Like she knows instinctively what to say to make your day better.

  ***

  Weeks later, I am dreaming again.

  It's dark. Cold darkness, I realize. Drowning, maybe? The dreams started as if I woke up there, but also like there had been nothing before it.

  I was in a car, and my ears hurt as if I was in an airplane. But it was the opposite. I wasn’t in the air.

  Water lapped against my legs as the water rose. I was sinking.

  I tried to calm myself, but the images of faces I didn’t recognize flew through my mind. An older woman. Someone’s mother? I wondered. The water was getting colder, and I was jerked forward against my seatbelt. The bottom of a—Lake? River? I didn’t know and the person’s mind was elsewhere.

  A hand that I could feel, but that’s wasn’t mine, reached out to the center console. Finding a small knife, I felt hope through the panic. But the hands were cold and and while trying to open it I dropped it into the water. It sank towards my feet, where the pedals were. Out of reach. My hands moved to fight with the seatbelt, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Breaths came faster now, water rising to just below my chest. I know I can’t break the windows until the car is full. They must have heard that somewhere. But judging by how cold the water is as it rushes in, and the pressure built in my head, we were down deep. Besides, I think to myself, though it's difficult to form my own words against the person’s own thoughts, but I know, this is how it ends. It always ends.

  The rest of the dream is like watching a movie in first-person. I go through their motions. Images of loved ones, memories, panic, then finally, the acceptance. Then nothing.

  The darkness of my room greets me when I wake. Tears sting my eyes, but I no longer wake sobbing every time. I try to believe there's some reason for me to go through this. Sometimes, the person’s want to live is so strong I want to run to them. To tell them to change their choices. To tell them to reach out to their loved ones while they can.

  I have done all of these things. I’ve been told I’m crazy, threatened to be handcuffed again, or even kicked out of the tower. It’s hard, but I still try to tell them what's coming, because I can’t sit by and do nothing. Even if nothing comes of it.

  ***

  So I start going out on more supply runs. And working out more. I found that people don’t talk to you while you spar with them. This was going great until I ended up back on the hospital floor a few weeks later after something had happened on a run.

  “Let me see her.” He is almost yelling. Loud enough that I can hear him across the entire row of cubicles, and through the closed office door where I lay in a spare room.

  “We’re not allowing visitors now—“ Someone tells him, while someone else speaks at the same time.

  “She needs to rest—“ I hear shuffling and a few “hey’s!” when the door handle turns. He knocks once he is halfway in, then enters anyway, not waiting for a response.

  “Hi,” He says by way of greeting, as if he didn’t just have people yelling at him. Pulling a chair out of the corner so it faces the bed more directly. “How are you?” I smile weakly in spite of myself. It’s all I can manage.

  “I’ve been better.” I clear my throat. “Do you always visit group members when they get injured?”

  “No,” He says, and by now I’m used to his one-word answers. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Why are you here?” I ask instead.

  “To make sure that you’re okay.” He speaks softer now. He isn’t wearing a suit this time, like when he had brought me here the first time. He’s dressed in jeans and a shirt—clean though.

  “I’m fine,” I say, though I am not sure that’s true. I got cut up pretty badly. “The store we raided had someone living there. We must have scared him. The others are okay. I was first in, got the worst of it.” I shrug and then swear as the pain laces through me. I pull my left arm up and cover my shoulder gingerly.

  “Can I see it?” He jerks his head to my shoulder. Suddenly, I am very aware that I am not wearing a bra. They had me take it off to put the bandage on, and I only have sweatpants and a loose shirt.

  “Uh, it’s fine.” I say as I bring the blanket closer to me, trying not to make it obvious that I’m covering my chest. To my surprise, he doesn’t press.

  “Where did they get you?” He asks instead. I run my finger along the bandage outline on my shoulder.

  “From the top of my right shoulder, to below across my collarbone. It was pretty deep. They stitched it, and it should heal, but it’ll probably scar.” I resist the urge to shrug again as I continue. “But who doesn’t have scars these days?” Barclay nods and I want to ask him more. To my surprise, I find myself wanting to know what scars he has.

  “What job were you doing today? Your clothes are clean for once.” I smirk at him. This time, his face breaks into a grin.

  “Water hauling, easy day. Not half exciting as yours.”

  “I think I’d take your day instead.” I admitted, using my left hand to gesture to the bandage.

  “Fair enough.” We lapse into silence.

  “So,” I hesitated. “You know I’m okay, so why are you here?” I watch as he breaths out evenly.

  “Because.” And for a moment I think that’s it, that he’ll stop talking. I open my mouth, but he continues. “Because I need to be.” I raise an eyebrow at that. He looks away first, which is unusual for him. “Just trust me.” He finally says.

  “Okay, well, can I ask you something? Since you’re here and all?” I used my left arm to prop myself up, and reached gingerly across the bed to where the candles were. Trying to also be mindful of keeping the blankets covering my chest. I feel my stitches pull and wince.

  Barclay got up and gently placed his hand under my left arm so I could use it as leverage to get myself sitting upright. He then walked around the bed and grabbed the candles off the desk, lighting them.

  “Thanks.” I tell him.

  “What do you want to know?” He says, his back to me as he lights the candles.

  “How did you end up here? In this city? Unless you grew up here? I realize I’ve never asked you.” I watch as his eyes meet mine, like he’s hesitating, considering the truth. Apparently he deems me worthy of it, as he responds with what I believe is as honest as I’ve ever heard him.

  “My sister was here. I was visiting. She died. I should’ve died too.” I pause at the admission, reflecting.

  “I’m sorry.” I pause. It’s a common sentiment now, but it carries more weight when almost everyone has lost someone recently. “May I ask what happened?”

  “Nothing horrible. When the event hit, of course, everything went out. We were driving, the car just stopped responding. We still had the emergency brake, but no power steering, and not enough time to react. We hit another car.” He gestured with his hands in a way that seemed to encompass the room. “Everyone hit everything then. It was chaos. I believe,” He breathed, quieter. “Or I want to believe, at least, that she died instantly. She was,” He took a breath. “She was already gone by the time I was conscious at least.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, and it’s not enough. It never is. But there is nothing you can say to make that kind of pain better. You can only listen, and if they let you, sit with them through it.

  “It’s fine,” He says, returning to his chair. “Everyone lost someone that day.” True, I think. But that shouldn’t minimize what he was feeling.

  “Thank you for being here.” I say. “But I’m curious why you came to check on me, specifically?” I bite my lip. I think I’m pressing too far, but I can’t take the words back now. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I think, in the low light, I can make out his cheeks turn slightly red.

  “Do you want the truth?” He asks, and I tilt my head. It wasn’t the response I expected from him.

  “Yes,” I say, suddenly finding it hard to speak. My heart rate picks up, and I am oddly grateful that there is no power to run a heart rate monitor.

  “I’m drawn to you.” He shakes his head. “It’s more than that, but I can’t explain it. I see—“ Whatever he was going to say is cut short by one of the first aid trained members opening the door.

  “Sorry, but I really am going to have to ask you to leave. There are others that need sleep too, including Cain.” The guy looks at Barclay like he’s expecting to be screamed at. But Barclay calmly gets up and moves the chair back. He wishes me a goodnight and steps out.

  I ask the aid guy to blow out the candles for me, and he obliges, plunging me into darkness. I lay down again, and pull the blanket farther up over me. There is a dull ache where my shoulder was injured and I hate having to sleep on my back.

  My thoughts turn to Barclay’s comment. Drawn to me? What does that mean? But the exhaustion of the day catches up with me, and I fall asleep before I can think too much about it.