Page 231 of Immune

I breathe in and it rattles. He hears it and his face breaks a little. Mine probably does the same, but I refuse to check.

Instead, I bluntly mutter, “You left.”

There it is. Nothing dramatic, not some elaborate build-up, and no careful doorway to step through. Just the shitty floor finally giving way after rotting for six years.

Maine’s hand goes still around mine. “I did.”

“You said two days.”

His eyes close.

“Three max,” I add, because I’m apparently the kind of person who keeps mental receipts even in an apocalypse.

“I know,” he says.

“No,” I counter, and his eyes open. The word comes out sharper than I meant it to, but not as sharp as he deserves. “No, you don’t know. You don’t even get to know it just because you remember saying it.”

Pain flashes through his face. It’s physical at first, and then it becomes something worse.

“I went for blockers,” he reminds me.

“I know.”

“And food. Mom’s meds.”

“I know.”

“I made it six blocks before the south road collapsed. Zeds came through the market. I got trapped in the pharmacy storage room for two days,” he explains.

My heart does something stupid but I don’t let my face follow.

“When I got out, the streets between us were completely gone. Fire took half the block. There were military trucks, then raiders, and then a sweep team from a compound that wasn’t this one,” he adds. “I tried to get back.”

The taste of metal fills my mouth, and I almost choke on the words as I ask, “How long?”

He already knows what I’m asking. Of course he does, because his eyes fall to our hands before he answers. “Nine days before I finally reached the townhouse again.”

The air in the room thins and the walls feel like they fall away.

Nine days.

Mom died the very next morning.

Nine days means he came back after.

Nine days means he saw.

Something in my face must change, because Maine’s grip turns desperate for one second before he forces himself to loosen it.

“Kota,” he whispers.

“What did you find?” I ask flatly.

He looks like he’d rather split open his stitches himself than answer that question.

Good.

“What did you find, Maine?” I press.