weaker and weaker with each step. When we get to level fifteen, Bowen pauses, letting go of my hand. There’s a little window on the door leading to floor fifteen. Bowen peers through it and puts his hand on the doorknob.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers, and turns the knob, slipping through to the fifteenth floor. I follow and we creep down the dim hallway, past door after door—all closed—until we come to one that is barely cracked open, number 1513. Bowen presses his ear to the metal and closes his eyes. I count to thirty before his eyes open. He shakes his head and goes to the next door, 1515, also open a crack, and presses his ear to it. I wait again, adrenaline pumping, and after a solid sixty seconds, he pushes the door. It swings silently open with a breeze of warm air. Before the door comes to a stop the gun is on his shoulder, pointing into the bright room.
“Wait here,” he whispers, and walks into the room. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he swings his gun from side to side, finger on the trigger. Poised for attack.
A sickening panic settles over me as I watch him disappear around a corner. He’s not wearing a Kevlar vest, yet he’s the one at risk. The seconds draw out as I wait for him to come back. Or get attacked. Or shot. As I wait to lose the only familiar thing in this world, I can’t breathe.
He steps back into view and motions me in as he sets his gun on a mattress hanging halfway off a box spring. I step inside, but instead of shutting the door behind me, I stride over to Bowen and throw my arms around his neck, holding him close and pressing my face into his shoulder. He stiffens beneath my touch, and I remember.
I am his greatest fear.
But then his arm loops around me, backpack and all, and he turns his face into the side of my neck, his breath on my skin, his touch leeching the panic from my muscles.
After a long minute he pulls away and looks at me, his eyes devouring mine. Without taking my arms from his neck I stare up at him.
“What was that for?” he asks.
“Watching you walk into the room, I thought of how I would feel if anything happened to you.” My voice trembles.
Bowen studies my face, his eyes moving from my eyes to my mouth and back again. “How would you feel?” he asks, his voice a whisper.
“I’ve already lost everything that I love. You’re all I have left.” My face starts to burn as I realize what I’ve almost said. That I love him. I hide my face against his shoulder, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
“You’re just tired.” He gently pries my arms from his neck. “You’ll feel different after some sleep,” he adds without meeting my eyes.
I know sleep won’t make a difference, but I don’t tell him. He steps from me and pushes the bare mattress back onto the box spring.
The room is covered in a layer of dust. The window is broken, and the curtains that once covered it are in a mouse-eaten pile on the floor. Bowen slips his arms out of his backpack and sets it beside the bed. I do the same, dropping my backpack to the floor with a clunk, and stretch my tight shoulders.
“Sleep,” Bowen says, taking the sleeping bag from my backpack and unzipping it. “I’ll keep watch.” He spreads it over the mattress, and I lie down. Next, he riffles through his backpack and brings out a can of something and a water bottle, then steps in front of a mirror affixed to the wall above a dust-coated dresser. Opening the water bottle, he splashes the left side of his head, the side with four vertical lines shaved into it. Next he squirts mint-green gel out of the can and rubs it over the four lines until it turns white and foamy. From his belt he takes a knife and drags it through the foam. The knife leaves bald skin in its wake.
“What are you doing?” I ask, climbing from the bed to stand beside him, staring with fascination.
“Shaving,” he answers, never taking his eyes from his reflection.
“I see that, but why?”
“I’m not part of the militia anymore. I’m on their most-wanted list, right up there with the raiders.” He looks at me and touches his injured shoulder. “I’m