Chapter Text
She hadn’t meant to keep moving.
The plan—if you could call it that—was to find a place and stop for a while. Rest her feet. Let the bruises fade from her ribs. Let the silence settle in her bones until it stopped feeling like a threat. But the road never let her linger long. Something always pulled her forward. Hunger. Weather. Regret.
Mostly regret.
She’d come from Boston. On foot, mostly. The occasional horse or truck ride when she was lucky, but it was luck that always came at a price. She’d crossed states and seasons, outpaced winter storms and worse things. When she finally hit the Rocky Mountains, it had felt like another world. Sharper. Quieter. Less forgiving.
She wasn’t even sure what she was chasing anymore. Or if she was being chased. She’d learned not to hope for more than the next hour. The next warm spot. A full belly. A roof that didn’t leak. Any bigger than that, and the world found a way to take it from her. Boston had chewed her up and spit her out. Left her with scars no map could trace and a name she wasn’t sure still belonged to her.
Still, some nights, when the cold pressed so deep into her skin she thought it might hollow her out completely, she’d let her guard slip just long enough to wonder what peace might feel like. Not the sharp-edged kind she used to bargain for—gun drawn, back to the wall—but the real thing. Something still. Soft.
She used to imagine what silence would feel like. Real silence. The kind that didn’t hum with tension or hide the sound of footsteps in the dark.
Now it was all she knew.
Towns like this—quiet, wind-scoured, picked clean—had become a blur in her memory. Maybe she’d passed through this one before. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. They all carried the same weight: the ache of what used to be, the threat of what might still be hiding.
She didn’t come here looking for trouble. Didn’t come looking for anything, really. Just a place to breathe. Somewhere the cold didn’t cut through her coat. Somewhere she could close her eyes for more than a few minutes without waking up with a knife at her throat.
But hope was the fastest way to get killed out here.
The town was hollowed out and half-frozen, like every other place she’d passed through lately. A shell of wood and broken glass, still standing just enough to fool you into hope.
She crouched behind a rusted sedan on the edge of the main street, coat drawn tight, breath coiled in the cold air. Her eyes tracked movement beyond the shattered windows of what used to be a hardware store—two men with rifles, one with a crowbar. Raiders. She could tell by the way they moved. Too loud, too sure. Like they owned the place.
She shifted her weight quietly, boot soles crunching over frozen gravel. She wasn’t looking to get into a fight. Wasn’t even looking for food, not really. Just shelter. Somewhere to get warm, maybe sleep, if that was even possible anymore.
Too much to ask, apparently.
The streets were quiet, deceptively so. Wind whistled through broken windows, tugging old flyers and crumpled bags across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, or maybe it was just the wind howling through a hollow frame.
She moved with caution, staying close to shadow, keeping her head down. So far, no one had seen her. But that never lasted long.
Then came the sound—hooves.
She froze, heart lurching into her throat. Horses. Real ones. The sound of them was too distinct to mistake: the dull, rhythmic thud of hooves striking concrete, the occasional jangle of tack. She dropped lower behind a low wall, pressing herself into the shadows, breath held. Her pulse hammered against the inside of her throat as she peeked between shattered windows.
Three riders, maybe four, emerged from the north end of the street. Their silhouettes cut sharp against the gray sky. Clean coats. Well-fed horses. They moved in a tight formation, deliberate and controlled. Not raiders. She knew raiders—knew the chaos of them, the sloppiness, the shouting and swearing and trigger-happy twitch of their fingers.
These people didn’t shout. Didn’t bark orders. Just raised their weapons in unison, sweeping the street ahead as they advanced like they’d done this a hundred times before.
Patrol. Organized. Dangerous in a different way.
She didn’t know who they were, but the raiders holed up in the hardware store across the street didn’t wait to ask questions.
Gunfire shattered the silence like glass underfoot.
She sucked in a sharp breath and ran. She didn’t think. Just moved. Muscles reacting before her brain caught up. She darted across the alley behind her, boots slipping on a patch of black ice. A bullet sparked against the trash bin beside her, ringing out with a high-pitched metallic whine. She ducked, stumbled, dove behind the half-standing corner of a brick wall, heart in her throat, blood roaring in her ears.
“Fuck,” she hissed, curling in on herself, trying to make her body smaller. Invisible.
She didn’t dare reach for her weapon. Didn’t dare make a sound beyond the rasp of her breath. Just stayed pressed against the cold stone, every nerve alight, hoping the chaos would pass her by like a wave crashing around a stubborn rock.
Another shot cracked—closer now, the sound of it sharper, more intimate. Too close.
Then came the fire.
It bloomed sudden and searing in her side, a white-hot bolt of pain that tore the air from her lungs. She gasped, the sound thin and panicked, stumbling forward with a hand clutched to her ribs. Warmth spread beneath her coat, sticky and fast. Not deep, she told herself, not deep—but god, it hurt. Every breath was a knife edge.
She staggered, vision blurring. Made it to the side of a long-abandoned diner, fingers scraping against crumbling brick for support. Her knees buckled, but she kept moving, sheer will dragging her forward.
Then came the sound she dreaded—boots.
Fast. Heavy. Too close.
“Down! Now!”
Hands grabbed her before she could react. Rough, strong. She twisted on instinct, elbow snapping backward. Felt a crunch—someone’s nose, maybe. A grunt. Then pain exploded in her stomach as a fist drove into her, hard enough to lift her feet off the ground. She crumpled, gasping, pain blinding and raw.
Concrete slammed into her spine. She tried to roll, crawl, anything—but a second hand, gloved and unrelenting, snatched her by the collar and slammed her back down.
“Fuckin’ bitch bit me,” someone snarled above her, voice thick with anger and blood.
Her head lolled, ears ringing. Her mouth tasted like copper.
“I’m not with them,” she coughed, voice ragged, desperation edging into it. “Jesus—would I be running if I was with them?”
Blood bubbled on her tongue, warm and sharp. She spat it out, blinking up at the dim sky and the blur of figures above her, praying at least one of them was listening.
Praying someone gave a damn.
“Doesn’t mean shit,” another voice snapped, rough and low. “You were in the middle of it. We don’t know who you are.”
The words hit like a hammer—accusation without context, the kind of suspicion that got people killed.
She groaned, pain flaring hot in her ribs as she tried to push herself up. Her hand slipped in blood—hers—and she barely made it halfway before a boot slammed down hard on her chest, pinning her to the cracked pavement. White sparks danced behind her eyes.
“You shoot everyone you don’t recognize,” she rasped, teeth bared, “or am I just lucky?”
A pause followed. Thick. Tense. The kind of silence that made people flinch before the blow landed. Then one of them laughed. Just once. A short, sharp bark that didn’t hold a shred of humor.
She turned her head, spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete, and looked up at the nearest face—just a blur of hard lines and a shadow beneath a hood.
“You hit like a fucking child,” she muttered, eyes narrowed.
That got their attention.
The man above her shifted, not saying anything, but she caught it—the faint flicker of surprise. Like maybe he wasn’t used to his victims talking back. Especially not bleeding and flat on their backs.
The tension coiled tighter.
And then—
“That’s enough.”
The voice cut through everything. Calm. Controlled. Older, with the lazy weight of the South tucked behind each syllable. It didn’t shout to be heard. It didn’t need to.
The boot lifted.
She turned her head with effort, panting through the pain, ribs screaming with every breath. Her vision swam, thick with static, but she blinked hard until it cleared enough to make out a figure stepping forward.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark coat pulled tight against the wind, rifle slung across his back. Beard speckled with gray, jaw tense. He looked down at her, not with suspicion—but with recognition hovering just beneath the surface. Like he was trying to remember where he’d seen her before.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice low but steady.
She didn’t answer right away. Her side was still leaking, warm and steady, soaking through layers of fabric. She groaned as she pushed herself up slowly, muscles trembling. One knee dug into the frozen concrete, the other foot braced beneath her. One hand pressed hard against her side, trying to hold herself together.
“I’m no one,” she muttered, head bowed. “Just passing through. Wasn’t lookin’ for a fight.”
The man didn’t respond immediately. Just stood there, arms loose at his sides, watching her with the quiet patience of someone who’d seen far too much to be easily rattled.
“You always mouth off when someone’s trying to help?”
She looked up at him, smirked despite the pain, blood painting her teeth.
“Only when they start by shooting me.”
The man didn’t smile. But something in his face shifted—something subtle around the eyes. A flicker of understanding. Of maybe, just maybe, amusement.
“I’m Tommy,” he said after a beat. “We’re with a settlement nearby. Got a name?”
The question hit her harder than she expected. Like a sudden gust of wind she wasn’t braced for. She blinked up at him, heartbeat stuttering, the smirk vanishing from her face.e
The name—it felt like a trap.
Like something fragile she couldn’t afford to hand over.
“Maybe,” she said carefully, voice rough. “If you get that gun out of my face, I might tell you.”
Tommy raised a brow. His expression didn’t change much, but she saw the silent exchange that passed between him and the man still holding her at gunpoint.
“Stand down,” Tommy said quietly. “She’s not one of them.”
There was hesitation. A long second where nothing moved but the wind pushing dust across the street. Then, finally, the gun lowered—slow, deliberate. The man holding it didn’t look happy about it. Didn’t look convinced either. But he stepped back all the same.
She exhaled slowly, pain buzzing through every inch of her, and eased herself the rest of the way up into a crouch. Her arm stayed locked against her side, blood seeping between her fingers in thick pulses. Her head spun, but she kept her chin lifted, eyes locked on Tommy
“You need a doctor,” Tommy said, his voice steady but not unkind.
She let out a breath, sharp through her nose. Her side throbbed with every heartbeat, warmth still spreading beneath her coat in a slow, steady leak.
“I need a place to sleep that doesn’t have bodies out front,” she shot back, jaw clenched against the pain. “And maybe some whiskey.”
The defiance came easy. It always did. But the adrenaline was fading fast now, leaving her cold, hollowed out, and shaking. Her limbs felt like dead weight.
Tommy huffed—just a breath, really. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
“We’ve got both.”
She turned her head just enough to eye him, suspicion flickering behind her lashes. It didn’t matter how calm his voice was—nothing in this world came without a price.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he said. “Just don’t give my people a reason to regret helpin’ you.”
She held his gaze a moment longer, testing him the way she’d learned to test everyone—reading for cracks, for hesitation, for that flicker of something dangerous behind their eyes. But there was only tired resolve in his.
She gave a slow nod. “Fair.”
Tommy glanced toward the others still lingering nearby, their eyes flicking between him and the stranger bleeding on the ground. “Get her on a horse.”
“I can walk.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m used to that,” she muttered, trying to straighten.
Tommy looked at her—not with pity, but with something heavier. Not sympathy, exactly. Just the kind of weariness that came from surviving too long. From seeing too much of the same kind of pain in other people’s eyes.
“You’ll ride.”
Before she could argue again, one of the others stepped forward and reached for her arm. Her body moved before her brain could catch up—she flinched back hard, eyes narrowing, voice sharp and defensive.
“Don’t touch me.”
The man halted mid-reach, and Tommy stepped in again, calm but firm.
“Let her do it herself.”
She exhaled shakily, sweat slick on her skin despite the cold. Her legs trembled beneath her, but she gritted her teeth and pushed herself upright anyway. Pride braced her more than strength. Pride and habit and the bitter refusal to let anyone see how close she was to falling apart.
One of the patrol horses was led over, its breath fogging in the winter air. The saddle looked impossibly high from where she stood, but she gripped the horn and pulled herself up one stiff movement at a time, jaw clenched tight against the groan that tore through her chest as the wound tugged.
The second she settled in the saddle, her hands went white-knuckled around the reins. Her side screamed, vision ghosting at the edges, but she didn’t let it show. Wouldn’t.
Tommy started walking beside her as the others turned back toward the woods, the group falling into an easy, practiced formation around them. Quiet stretched between them, brittle and cold.
After a beat, she spoke, voice low. “What’s this place called? This settlement of yours.”
“Jackson,” he answered simply.
The name rolled through her like distant thunder. A sound you felt before you understood what it meant. She stared ahead, past the trees and the path winding toward whatever safety he was promising.
Her gaze slid away, unfocused.
“Huh.”
Tommy looked up at her, curious. “That mean something to you?”
Her jaw worked once, twice, like she might bite the words back. But when they came, they were flat. Measured.
“No,” she said. “Never heard of it.”
The words settled like dust between them. Quiet and heavy. No one pressed her. She didn’t offer anything more. They rode in silence for a moment longer, the wind biting colder now, like it knew something was shifting. Like it could taste what she hadn’t said.
And then, without looking at him, she said—
“Ella.”
Tommy blinked. “Sorry?”
“My name,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s Ella.” She said it like it still meant something. Like she wasn’t afraid of who might recognize it.
He gave a slow nod, the only acknowledgment she needed.
“Well, Ella,” he said quietly, “let’s get you patched up.”
She didn’t reply. Just kept her eyes on the path ahead.
The ride that followed was long and mostly silent.
Cold air bit at her skin where the blood had dried stiff beneath her coat, and every jolt of the horse sent a dull throb through her side. She kept her eyes ahead, saying nothing, letting the ache and the rhythm of hooves keep her grounded. Behind her, the forest closed in again, swallowing the blood and wreckage they’d left behind. She didn’t look back.
Eventually, the trees began to thin, giving way to wide clearings and faint paths cut through frostbitten grass. Signs of order emerged—footprints in the snow, fencing, tire tracks, smoke curling from distant chimneys.
The gates were taller than she expected.
Steel and timber, patched and reinforced with scavenged sheet metal. Floodlights crowned the top, unlit now, but their empty gaze followed her as the patrol passed through. Snow clung to the ridgelines of the nearby mountains, distant and cold. Jackson was tucked into the bones of the land, part of it. A fortress wrapped in fences and forest, surrounded by white.
She kept her head down as they rode in, blood stiffening against her coat. It had soaked through the lining, warm at first, now cold and heavy. Her ribs throbbed in time with the beat behind her eyes. She wasn’t dying, not yet, but it had been a long time since she’d been this close to warm walls without a gun in her hand.
She didn’t trust it. Warmth, welcome, the promise of safety—it all felt like bait. She’d seen what came after. Smiling faces could turn. Promises broken. That was the pattern.
Children ran past on the far side of the street. Real kids. Clean faces, coats that fit, a ball bouncing between them like it wasn’t a fucking crime to play. One of them glanced her way, wide-eyed, before a woman called them back toward a house with a pale green roof.
She flinched as a door slammed shut nearby.
Everything here was too bright, too solid. She could feel her edges peeling apart under the weight of it.
The patrol dismounted and began to scatter.
Someone took the reins of her horse. She hadn’t realized she was swaying in the saddle until a hand steadied her from below.
“I’ve got her,” Tommy said.
She didn’t protest this time. Pride could only carry her so far, and her legs weren’t answering anyway. She let him help her down, jaw clenched as her boots hit packed earth. The whole town smelled like wood smoke and pine.
A second man joined them—stocky, dark-skinned, his eyes scanning over her with hesitation. He looked her up and down like he was sizing up a threat, but didn’t say anything. Tommy muttered something to him under his breath, and the man nodded, disappearing down the path.
“Where’s your doc?” she asked.
Tommy gestured to the left. “This way. Clinic’s near the stables.”
She limped beside him, blood still seeping between her fingers where she held her side. People were watching—through windows, from porches, behind garden fences. Not afraid, exactly. Just aware. Like they knew a stranger didn’t show up without bringing something bad with them.
Maybe they were right.
They passed a street lined with lights strung between the buildings. It was quiet but not silent—some generator running somewhere, the faint hum of a radio inside one of the houses. She caught a whiff of stew, thick and warm in the cold air, and her stomach curled in on itself. It was too much. Too close to a memory.
The clinic was small—maybe two rooms. Clean, orderly, lit by sunlight through frosted glass. A woman in her fifties looked up from a desk and narrowed her eyes.
“She’s bleeding,” Tommy said. “Caught in a firefight.”
The woman—Maria, her nameplate read—stood up and waved them in. “Get her on the table.”
She hissed through her teeth as she climbed up, the paper crinkling beneath her. Her coat was peeled off, her shirt cut away. She caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room—dirt-streaked, bruised jaw, dried blood down her side.
“You’ve had worse,” Ella muttered under her breath.
Tommy didn’t hear it. Or if he did, he didn’t ask.
Maria cleaned the wound with efficient, unsentimental hands. Ella kept her eyes on the ceiling, jaw locked. Every antiseptic-soaked swipe threatened to undo her. Her brain couldn’t decide if this was help or interrogation. She gripped the edge of the table like it might vanish beneath her.
“Bullet grazed you. Deep, but it’ll heal.” She paused. “Assuming you let it.”
“Wasn’t planning on dying today.”
Maria didn’t smile, but her touch gentled. She stitched fast and clean, wrapped the bandage tight, and handed her a clean shirt someone had dug up from a back room. It was too big, but warm.
She pulled the oversized shirt over her head with a wince, fingers fumbling at the hem. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her ribs, but she didn’t make a sound. Just gritted her teeth and finished the job. The fabric smelled like cedar and dust—like it had been buried in someone’s attic for years. Still, it was dry. And not torn. That was more than she’d had in a long time.
Maria left her with a curt nod and a warning to “try not to tear the stitches.” The man—Tommy—lingered a moment longer, watching her with something that might’ve been suspicion or concern. It was hard to tell with men like that. Then he left, too, and the door clicked shut behind them.
Silence settled in like fog.
Ella lay back carefully, one arm curled beneath her head, and stared at the ceiling. The adrenaline was gone. In its place: dull ache, bone-deep fatigue, and the cold crawl of uncertainty. She didn’t know where she was, not really. Some town in the mountains. Safe, for now. But for how long? Places like this didn’t let strangers stay without asking questions.
She closed her eyes, listening to the wind whistle through the cracks in the walls. Outside, the world was still turning.
Inside, her body finally gave in to sleep.
The cot in the corner of the clinic creaked beneath Ella’s weight as she shifted, trying not to breathe too deep. The bandage at her ribs pulled tight. Stitched clean, yeah, but every inch of her felt bruised.
Snow had started falling again outside. Soft against
the windowpanes, like the world was pretending to be gentle for once.
Ella didn’t trust it.
She’d slept for maybe an hour, maybe two. Hard to tell. Long enough for the blood on her skin to dry and flake. Long enough to feel just how deep the exhaustion ran. Not just in her bones. Deeper.
The door creaked open on rusted hinges, the sound slicing through the quiet like a blade. Cold light from the hallway spilled into the room, followed by the soft shuffle of boots on the floorboards.
Maria stepped inside.
She carried a mug in one hand—steam curling from the lip in slow, delicate tendrils—and a folded blanket tucked under her other arm. She didn’t speak right away. Just stood in the doorway for a beat, gaze steady, taking Ella in like she was trying to piece together a puzzle someone else had started.
Not judgmental. Not hostile. Just… watchful. Careful.
Ella narrowed her eyes, a flicker of defense rising up unbidden. “You always stare at your patients like that?”
Maria’s lips twitched, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She crossed the room and set the mug on the bedside table with a quiet clink. “Only the ones who look like they’ve lived through hell.”
Ella snorted—dry and tired. “You should see the other guy.”
But Maria didn’t smile.
Instead, she dragged a chair over from the far wall and sat beside the bed with the kind of quiet authority that came from years of hard choices.
She didn’t waste time.
“I need to check the stitches.”
Ella sighed, already regretting the effort it would take. But she pushed the blanket aside and leaned slightly, lifting her arm so Maria could unwrap the dressing. The bandage peeled back with a soft tug, sticky with dried blood. The cold air rushed in, kissing raw skin.
Maria’s hands slowed. Stopped. Scars. A mess of them. Layered and crisscrossed, some pale with age, others red and angry like they hadn’t finished healing. Bullet holes. Knife wounds. Burns shaped like memories no one had ever asked about. One near her ribs looked like it came from broken glass.
But her back was worse. She felt the weight of Maria’s gaze and braced for the worst—revulsion, pity, questions she wouldn’t answer. Her pulse quickened, muscles twitching like she might need to bolt.
Beneath the faded tank top, a history was carved across her spine in old wounds—evidence of every time she hadn’t walked away clean.
Maria didn’t speak. Not at first. Then, gently: “This isn’t your first fight.”
Ella’s voice came out flat. “No.”
“Raiders?”
Ella gave a half-shrug. “Sometimes. Sometimes just people. Sometimes worse.”
Maria touched a spot just below the fresh wound. Ella flinched, breath hitching through her teeth.
“Still tender,” Maria muttered, inspecting the skin.
“But no sign of infection. You’ll heal.”
“Lucky me.”
Maria rose without a word, crossing to the sink near the far wall. She rinsed her hands in silence, the water running loud in the stillness of the room. The pipes groaned, old and protesting.
“We don’t have a place open for you yet,” she said over her shoulder. “Closest house needs work—broken windows, wood rot. It’ll take a few days.”
Ella sat up a little straighter, a flicker of old paranoia rising up. “So you’re keeping me in here?”
“For now.”
“And if I’m not worth the effort?”
That made Maria turn, eyebrows lifting, eyes sharp. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Maria leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. Her gaze didn’t waver.
“You’ve clearly been through enough. But you’re not the only one we’ve taken in with a story they’re not ready to tell.”
That gave Ella pause. She blinked, slow.
“I’ve seen women come through with less than you and fight like hell to stay,” Maria went on. “You want that chance?”
Ella didn’t answer. Couldn’t, maybe. Her throat was tight again, and it had nothing to do with injury. Maria pushed the mug closer across the nightstand.
“Soup. Not much, but it’s hot.”
Ella reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they curled around the ceramic. She brought it to her lips, sipped. It burned, and it still felt dangerous—like softness wrapped in a snare. Her body wanted it. Her heart didn’t trust it.
Maria watched her for another beat before finally asking, “You’ve got a name?”
Ella stared into the swirling broth, steam fogging her vision, hiding her expression.
Then: “Ella.”
Maria nodded once, like she was tucking the name away somewhere important.
“Rest up, Ella. I’ll be back tomorrow. Let me know if the pain gets worse.”
The door clicked shut behind her, closing softly on its own. Ella leaned her head back against the wall and let her eyes close. She didn’t know if she could stay here. She didn’t know if she’d last a week. But she hadn’t been offered warmth in a long time—and she wasn’t stupid enough to spit in the face of it.
Not yet.
By the time morning crept in, the snow had stopped.
A soft hush blanketed the town, thick drifts pressed against windowpanes like a held breath. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once. Then quiet again. Ella sat on the edge of the cot, stiff and half-dressed, staring at the laces of the boots someone had left by the door. They weren’t hers. A little too big. But solid.
She pulled them on anyway, grimacing as her ribs protested the motion. The shirt was still too loose, but it covered the bruises. She looked in the mirror again, hollow eyes stared back at her, the bruises on her face had darkened overnight. She looked like shit.
When Maria showed up, it wasn’t with questions. Just a jacket. Canvas-lined, worn at the elbows, a patch sewn at the shoulder. She tossed it to Ella without ceremony.
“You up for a walk?” Maria asked.
Ella squinted at her. “That depends. Someone planning to shoot me again?”
Maria’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Not unless you give them a reason.”
She followed Maria outside, stepping carefully onto the snow-packed path. The cold hit her full in the face, sharp and clean. It cleared the fog in her head more than anything else had. Jackson spread out below them in quiet layers—rooftops dusted white, smoke curling up from chimneys, fences strung with lights, small greenhouses fogged from the inside.
It looked… normal.
It put her on edge immediately.
They passed a pair of kids chasing each other with sticks. A man splitting wood outside a barn. A woman hauling firewood in a sled, nodding politely when they passed. Everyone said hello like they meant it.
Ella kept her head down and let Maria talk.
“There’s about two hundred of us now,” Maria said, her breath fogging the air. “Families. Couples. Some folks came alone. We keep it quiet, keep it safe.”
She pointed as they walked. “That’s the dining hall. Open all day. Storage behind it. Schoolhouse on the other end of the square. We’ve got power, water, livestock, trade routes with a few nearby places. We grow what we can, store what we can’t.”
They stopped by a stretch of fencing where horses were penned. One looked up at Ella, snorted once, then went back to chewing hay.
“We take patrols seriously,” Maria said. “You saw that. Raiders are more organized these days. Infected still wander down outta the mountains when the snow starts to melt.”
Ella’s arms were crossed tight over her middle, fingers digging into her sides. “Sounds like paradise.”
Maria didn’t rise to it. “It’s a community. You pull your weight, you eat. That simple.”
Simple. Fair. Too fair. Ella didn’t know what to do with fair anymore. She’d grown used to barter with blood, not labor. The idea of earning safety without a body count unsettled her.
They kept walking. A teenager on a roof waved down at them, hammer in hand. Somewhere behind a wall, someone was singing—a woman’s voice, faint but clear. It made something ache in Ella’s chest.
Maria glanced at her as they walked. “There’s a gathering tonight,” she said. “We do ‘em now and then. Food, music, drinks. Good chance to meet people.”
“I don’t—” Ella started, but Maria cut her off with a look.
“You don’t have to stay long. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Just show your face. Let ‘em see you’re not a ghost.”
Ella frowned. “What if I am?”
That almost-smile again. “Then you’ll fit right in.”
They stopped back at the clinic. Maria opened the door but paused, gaze flicking briefly to the side of Ella’s neck—just under the collar of her shirt, where old scar tissue curved over her collarbone like claw marks.
She didn’t ask. Didn’t stare. Just handed her the folded blanket from the chair and said, “Get some rest before sundown. You’ll want the energy.”
Ella watched her go. Then looked back at the street, the snow, the quiet people going about their quiet lives. She’d seen places pretend to be safe before.
But this place? It wasn’t pretending. That made it worse.
——
The sun dipped low behind the mountains, throwing long shadows across the snowy rooftops and painting the sky in rust-red and bruised violet. Jackson lit up like a storybook. Strings of warm lights stretched between buildings, swaying in the cold wind, casting golden halos on the people below.
Ella stood just outside the mess hall doors, jacket pulled tight around her, breath clouding in front of her face. Laughter floated from inside—light and unguarded. The kind she hadn’t heard in years.
Maybe longer.
She hadn’t meant to come. She’d told herself she wouldn’t. But something kept tugging. Not hope, exactly. Not even curiosity. Just a need to make sure the peace inside wasn’t a trick of the light.
But the clinic had been too quiet. Too warm. She hadn’t been able to sit still. Couldn’t lie on that cot and pretend she didn’t feel the pulse of life in this place, humming just beyond the glass. Maria had offered her a dress, of all things. Ella had stared at it like it was a grenade.
In the end, she’d stuck to the borrowed jeans and shirt, washed and stiff. She’d gotten a shower too—real running water, hot enough to sting. It had been a long time. Long enough that she’d stood there longer than she should’ve, just letting the heat work the ache out of her shoulders. She fingered-combed her hair before leaving, it was still a little damp at the ends. A pale line of scar peeked above the collar of her shirt, and she hadn’t bothered to hide it.
Inside, the hall was buzzing. Wood-paneled walls, benches pushed aside to make space for dancing, kids running between legs. A man played something low and lilting on a fiddle near the front—folk music, the kind that felt older than bones.
Ella lingered near the wall. She didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just watched.
They were soft here, these people. Open in a way that made her itch. She caught pieces of conversation—someone bragging about a recipe, another about a new colt born last week. There was music and stories and the smell of stew. Real, hot food. Not from a can. The kind that clung to the air and made your stomach twist in ways that had nothing to do with hunger.
Someone pressed a tin cup into her hand. She startled, then looked up to find Tommy grinning at her.
“Promised you whiskey, didn’t I?”
She hesitated, then took the drink. It burned just right on the way down, and for a second, her shoulders loosened.
Tommy leaned beside her, hands in his coat pockets. “You holding up alright?”
“Better than I look,” she said, which was a lie, but not a cruel one.
He glanced over at her, brow raised. “That supposed to be a joke?”
“Didn’t say it was a good one.”
He chuckled, took a sip from his own cup. “People are glad you made it. We don’t get many strangers, and fewer still that don’t shoot first.”
Ella’s mouth twisted. “I got shot first, for the record.”
“Noted.”
The fiddle picked up, joined now by a guitar. More people drifted onto the makeshift dance floor, spinning lazily to the rhythm. Children squealed. Boots scuffed against wood. Someone clapped in time.
It was all so painfully… alive.
The whiskey was starting to settle in her limbs—slow, spreading warmth that softened the space around her without ever touching the core. Nothing could reach that deep. Her edges held, sharp and silent, but the drink made everything feel heavier. Looser. Like a door inching open in the back of her mind.
She was halfway through the cup when it started.
Not a shock. No lightning bolt to the chest. Just a shift. A tension in the air, sudden and invisible—like someone stepping too close behind her. The weight of it pressed on the base of her neck, old instinct bristling to the surface. Ella’s gaze drifted across the room. Lazy. Unconcerned.
And stopped cold.
There was a man by the fire. Half-turned, in profile. Not looking her way. He was speaking to someone—a woman with loose hair and easy laughter, standing close, smiling like she belonged there. He didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. It was the way he stood that caught her. The way his weight shifted, hip to hip, like he was used to long days on his feet. The tilt of his head when he listened—subtle, thoughtful. Every inch of him familiar in a way that bypassed logic and went straight to bone.
Her hand closed around the tin cup, the metal biting cold into her palm.
It couldn’t be him.
There was no reason—no fucking reason—for him to be here. This place was supposed to be clean. Quiet. Safe. She’d left Boston to get away from old ghosts. But then the man laughed. Just once. Low. Rough. Gravel warmed by fire. Her breath caught. He turned his head, just enough for the firelight to catch his face.
Joel.
The name didn’t hit her right away. It came slow, like molasses. Sinking, thick, unshakable. She stared at his face—the lines deeper now, beard fuller, the silver more stubborn in his hair. But it was him.
God, it was him.
He looked… alive.
Not just breathing. Not just surviving like she was. He looked real. Solid. His shoulders weren’t slumped with the weight of the world. His mouth was relaxed. His hands were empty. He looked like someone who had stopped running. And then the woman beside him leaned up, kissed him lightly on the mouth, and he didn’t flinch.
Ella’s breath caught halfway up her throat. Her pulse roared in her ears, all sound falling away until the world shrank to a pinhole. Her vision tunneled, black creeping in at the edges like something inside her had just torn loose.
The cup in her hand dropped. She didn’t feel it leave her fingers, didn’t hear it hit the ground. Her feet moved before she could stop them, backing toward the door. Her breath came fast. Tommy noticed. She saw him shift out of the corner of her eye, turning toward her, confusion on his face.
“Hey—everything alright?”
Ella didn’t answer.
The cold hit her like a slap as she pushed through the door and stumbled outside. Wind sliced down the street, curling snow around her boots. The music behind her was muffled now, distant. Like it belonged to a different world. She leaned a hand on the railing to steady herself. Her side throbbed with every breath.
She’d crossed the country. Lost more than she could name. Changed in ways she couldn’t explain. And he was here. He was alive.
Happy.
She let out a harsh breath, ragged and shaking.
Then she whispered his name.
“Joel fucking Miller.”