Page 185 of Immune

“Prisoner?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” she repeats, and there’s not an ounce of humor in it this time.

I keep watching the gate. “Could be injured. Could be infected. Could be punishment.”

“We just love a welcoming community,” she says, her voice flat enough to cut.

I look over at her, then look away again before it becomes too much. “That wall doesn’t make them safe.”

Dakota’s eyes remain on the compound. “It doesn’t. It makes them confident.”

Smart girl. Too smart. Too familiar with how bad things can dress themselves up as shelter. I want to tell her we won’t let anyone put her in a cage. I want to tell her if that compound tries anything, I’ll burn the path back out myself. I want to make promises big enough to cover the fear I saw in her down in that tunnel.

But I don’t.

Promises are easy to make, but choice is harder.

So I give her the only thing that doesn’t ask her to believe me.

“We get the pilot inside if it’s the best medical option,” I tell her. “We gather what we need. We watch the people as much as we watch the walls. And if it feels wrong, we leave.”

Her head turns slowly, and I see the gears turning behind her eyes. “We?”

“Yeah.”

“You planning to ask my opinion on wrongness?”

“Certainly ain’t planning to enjoy it.”

That earns me something. It’s not a smile, not that I would see it from anywhere but her eyes. It’s not even trust, because that’s too much. But the look she gives me is less blade and more question. “You’re getting weird again, Scar.”

I shrug. “It’s been a rough day.”

“You always get rough days,” she mutters.

“Then at least I’m consistent.”

She watches me for another moment, then she crouches by the hatch. “Fine. But if your compound friends try to separate us, I reserve the right to stab someone.”

“They’re not my compound friends.”

“Potential compound acquaintances, then,” she snarks.

“Still a hard no.”

“Compound strangers who may or may not have a murder basement hidden in there,” she tries.

I nod. “That one works.”

She points at me. “See? Look at that. Teamwork.”

Before I can answer, a shout carries from somewhere behind us. It’s distant but sharp.

Vector.

Dakota hears it, too, and the moment ends quickly. She drops through the hatch without waiting for help, landing with a soft grunt. I follow after, boots hitting dusty concrete a second later.