Page 27 of Evolved

But we’re a long way from having classes on speechwriting.

And Gran … I’m not even sure I want her to be the president anymore.

President of what?

It all feels like a farse.

“I don’t know. Everything I wanted no longer makes sense.” We don’t even have a dialysis machine right now, and she needs one. “And Gran … will people even follow her?”

A sixty-year-old with a bad kidney claiming to be President of the United States of America after a catastrophic plague means about as much as the cash money sitting in my wallet sitting forgotten somewhere—which is to saynothing.

“Right now,” I say. “All she has is a title. There’s no power in a title. Not on its own. You need people who believe it first.”

I look down at the turtleneck in my hands and the too-small sweater of Nancy’s that I’m wearing and shrug. He’s already seen me naked. He’s half-naked, too. It’s the apocalypse, and there’s no changing rooms in here. Why not take our clothes off whenever?

No ceremonies, right?

No sock in my mouth.

New rules to learn in a game I’ve never played.

I lift the sweater up, turning away from him in a gesture that feels coy. I turn partly away and let the top slip off my shoulders like a snake shedding its skin. I slip my hair over one shoulder. “We need to give them a vision of a future they want to live in.”

I pull the turtleneck on, and when I look back, I catch him pulling on his own clothes. Biceps flex and shoulder blades ripple, and my mouth goes dry.

“You need to give them one?” he asks. “Or you need to find one yourself?”

8|There could be rats

OTTILIE

WE OPT FOR THE TUNNELSsince being on the street feels exposed, and ones near the Capitol are at a higher elevation than those at the White House and shouldn’t be flooded.

Still, he hesitates at the entry door in the basement of the Rayburn building. “I’d feel better if you waited here.”

“No.”

“There could be rats.”

“So?”

“You’re not scared of rats?”

I touched Gina’s corpse. “I’m over rats.”

“They could still be flooded,” he tries.

“Knox, come on. What are you afraid of? That we’ll get there, and someone is waiting?”

“Yes.”

“Then we deal with it.”

His throat moves sharply, but he doesn’t argue, just lifts the crowbar to the door. “Alright.” You can’t always hear the southern in his words, but it comes out now, long and lazy, the T going silent as the hinge releases with a metallic groan. “For the record, I like how you say my name.”

“How do I say it?” I ask, biting down on my lip to stop myself from smiling.

“Like a rich girl who went to an Ivy League school and eats caviar with presidents.” He ducks through the door and disappears.

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