Page 13 of Evolved

His teeth flash, a quick, half smile, that dimple doing a dance, and then it’s gone. “It was fine. Good to hear your unfiltered thoughts.”

“Itfeltgood.” It did. It really did, especially since he’s still sitting there, smiling warmly, sharing his cookies. “No sock. It’s your turn. What random stuff are you thinking?”

He lets loose one of his apocalyptic shrugs, bites into the cookie, and chews it slowly. “I’m thinking … this place is a problem.”

I’ve had that thought, but I want to hear it from him. “Why?”

“I was going to wait to bring it up with Viola until morning. I saw a group raiding the mansions on the hill yesterday.” He must have gone out after we got back, which he does often. Gran has tasked him with using access codes to enter weapons lockersand move guns in his spare time.

“How many?” I ask.

“Not a lot. Seven or eight. But they weren’t the kind of people we want on our team. And if they’re raiding mansions, how long until they shift focus to the biggest mansion of all?”

That’s a chilling thought.

America doesn’t have a crown or a throne—it’s got this building right here—and everyone else knows it. It’s the flag in the coming game of capture the flag.

“It’s a stronghold we’re not strong enough to hold,” he adds.

It’s true.

And Gran knows it.

Ballistic glass isn’t impenetrable, anyone can climb over the walls, an F-150 and a hitch could rip the gates off, the basements are flooding now that the sump pumps aren’t running, there’s water pooling in them, and flooding could happen anytime.

“She would say that inviting them here could give us the upper hand,” I say halfheartedly. Especially if I manage to write her rousing talking points that inspire loyalty and determination, fill them with vision and a sense of unity. “We need the dialysis machine.”

His hand tightens on the armrest of his red chair. “I can’t guarantee her safety in a fight.”

The way he says it, I can tell he feels the way I do about writing. Like that makes him a failure.

A fighter who can’t fight and a writer who can’t write.

“No one expects you to single-handedly fend off a hoard of invading crazies if they come,” I say, but I know it’s a half-lie. Gran would prefer that he did—just like she expects me to write—and she expected Gina to do whatever she did, even if she had to die.

“What do you propose?” I ask.

“That we keep our essentials packed and ready, so if anyone comes, we can leave.”

“Ok,” I say quietly. “I agree with that.”

His feet shift slightly on the carpet, legs spreading just a tick wider.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know what he’s thinking—we just agreed to override the wishes of the president.

That’s pretty close to treason.

I should feel guilty or maybe ashamed, but I don’t.

I stand. “I’ll make a bag.”

I’m over at my sofa-turned bed when he says, “I’m glad you removed the sock.”

I glance back at him over my shoulder and catch his eyes about two feet south of my face. He was looking at my butt.

“I’d saythank you,but apparently that’s rude,” pops out of my mouth, and he smiles like it was the cleverest thing in the world, even though it wasn’t.

I pack my backpack with the things we can’t live without—which it turns out, isn’t much. Gran’s pills, my laptop with all my notes through the years, the charger, a few protein bars and water bottles, spare ammo. Everything else can be replaced.

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