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No way, Teacup Promises are the only currency left They must be spent wisely Her bottom lip quivers; her eyes mist “Hey,” I say softly “What did I tell you about that, soldier?” I resist the impulse to touch her “What’s the first priority?”

“No bad thoughts,” she answers dutifully

“Because bad thoughts do what?”

“Make us soft”

“And what happens if we go soft?”

“We die”

“And do ant to die?”

She shakes her head “Not yet”

I touch her face Cold cheek, warm tears Not yet With no tiirl has probably reached e Sullivan and me, we’re old And Zombie? The ancient of days

He’s waiting for ht yellow hoodie, both scavenged from the re only a flimsy pair of scrubs Beneath his scruffy beard, his face is the telltale scarlet of fever The bullet wound I gave him, ripped open in his escape from Camp Haven and patched up by our twelve-year-old ainst the counter, pressing his hand against his side and trying to look like everything’s cool

“I was starting to think you changed your , though that could be the fever

I shake my head “Teacup”

“She’ll be okay” To reassure e Zombie doesn’t fully appreciate the pricelessness of promises or he wouldn’t toss them out so casually

“It’s not Teacup I’m worried about You look like shit, Zombie”

“It’s this weather Wreaks havoc on my complexion” A second s oing to s I say and the world will break in half”

“I’m not prepared to take on that responsibility”

He laughs and maybe I hear a rattle deep in his chest “Here” He offers me another brochure of the caverns