Page 27 of Glass Rose
“Unless you’re planning to fight zombies in terrycloth.”
“That would be a bold fashion choice.” My attempt at humor falls flat, voice cracking on the last word.
I hurry back to my parents’ bedroom because the clothes I left in my room are from high school. Inside her closet, I find an old pair of jeans, a faded blue t-shirt, and her worn leather jacket. I dress and slip into the sturdy hiking boots from their trip last year.
Fully dressed, I search for the first aid kit and bring it to Gavin, who’s wearing my father’s pants, chest still bare.
“Sit.” I place the kit on the counter and open it up.
He lowers himself to the edge of the bathtub, legs spread, bringing us to eye-level and too close in this tiny bathroom.
I dab antiseptic on the jagged tear. “Does it hurt?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even seem to register the pain.
“You’ve had worse,” I murmur.
“Much.”
I probe the cut, scanning his other scars. His skin is hot under my touch—fever? Or another side-effect? “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“I should have acted sooner.” I thread the needle. “Done something.”
“Or ended up in the cell next to mine.”
“Maybe that would’ve been better than being complicit.” I set out to make the first stitch.
His hand catches mine, stopping me. “No. It wouldn’t.”
Our eyes lock, and I can't look away. There's something raw in them.
“We should—” I swallow hard. “I need to finish this.”
He releases me. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“Med school. First two years before I switched to research. Turns out I prefer my patients in petri dishes. Less messy…” I start again, hands steady despite everything. “Do you really have no one?” The needle dips in and out. “Not a single person in the world who might be worried about you?”
“Not anymore. Parents died when I was young. No siblings.” His eyes track my hands as they work. “You done?”
“Almost.” The last stitch goes in smoothly, and I cut the thread with small scissors from the kit before testing the stitches with my fingertips. “There. Should hold.”
He turns away, putting on the shirt that stretches across his shoulders like it was made for him.
“You look…” My voice trails off.
“Ridiculous?”
“Human.”
“Is that what I am?”
A few hours ago, he was a stranger—a test subject, a monster created in a lab. Today, he’s the only thing standing between me and a complete breakdown.
Funny how the apocalypse changes your perspective.
“What else would you be?” I ask.
