The waiting list was long, but Hamilton had promised to get Liam on the list to honor his sacrifice for the greater good. He would work on obtaining a slot for Milo to get more meds, too.
In addition, the National Guard had brought in a well-guarded fuel truck to ration gasoline to local law enforcement and medical units. That was Hamilton’s doing, too.
Jamal and Tina had restarted a few of the Winter Haven solar panels. They’d hauled several rusty windmills from farms and wedding barns, restoring them to run a fridge, washing machine, or heater.
They had working farm equipment, generators, additional communications gear.
Even in the midst of sorrow, there was much to be grateful for.
Milo plugged the iPod into an old speaker and cranked up his and Quinn’s favorite rock classics from the 70s and 80s. They played Queen’s “We are the Champions,” Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’，” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”
She breathed deeply, letting the music fill her senses, sink into her and swirl through her veins. How she had missed music. Once, it had been a part of her; it would be again.
Across the yard, Bishop held L.J. while Travis cradled a sleeping Charlotte. They were deep in conversation with Dave about their plans to raid the local breweries and wineries for parts to build their own stills.
Dave was after more moonshine, while Bishop wanted Fall Creek in control of their own biofuel. They were meeting with Dominique West, who’d agreed to teach them how to make it themselves.
Hannah surveyed the packed yard. Molly’s goat—now Hannah’s by default—moseyed around, her collar jangling, bleating and chewing grass. Children played tag, chasing each other around clumps of grown-ups chatting and laughing, drinking and eating.
From his kingly throne on the back porch, Ghost gave them a long-suffering look. He yawned, black jowls glistening, then flopped onto his side and stretched leisurely in a puddle of sunlight. With a huff of pleasure, he closed his eyes.
Thor, Odin, and Loki curled up on various parts of his body. For once, Valkyrie wasn’t hunting. She sat primly on one of the patio chairs, her tail twitching as she watched everyone trample her favorite patch of grass.
“What would Molly think of all this?” Hannah asked.
For a second, Quinn stiffened. Then she half-smiled, half-grimaced and rolled her eyes. “She’d yell at everyone to get off her lawn.”
Hannah smiled. After a brief moment, Quinn did, too.
And then they were laughing, the air brighter somehow. Their weary souls a little lighter.
“Here.” Quinn held several packages in her arms, wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper and held together with tiny strips of duct tape.
Quinn looked like a regular teenager—almost. Ripped jeans, black combat boots, a threadbare, oversized AC/DC T-shirt, her black hair streaked with the faintest threads of Windex-blue.
Her AR was slung casually over her shoulder, the karambit at her belt. Her bruises had long faded but for the jagged scar slicing through her lower lip.
Other girls might have felt horror or shame; Quinn wore it like a badge of honor.
She was both different and the same. Quieter, reserved, more mature. A wisdom in her eyes hard-won through adversity.
She thrust a package at Milo. “For you, Small Fry.”
Milo’s face lit up. “I love presents!”
“I had a crazy hunch.”
Milo unwrapped Quinn’s slingshot. Also included was a wrist guard and a baggie of 1/8th steel ammo balls.
Milo’s eyes grew round as golf balls. He jumped up and down, curls bouncing, hooting in excitement. “For me?”
“I don’t see any other snot-nosed kid named Small Fry around here, do you?”
“Nope! Just me!”
“I also found one last jar of crunchy peanut butter behind a bucket of flour down in Gran’s secret lair. I was gonna trade it, but then I thought you might want a bite first—”
“Heck yeah I do!” Milo said.
“Language,” Hannah said, biting back a laugh.
Quinn narrowed her eyes. “No peanut butter for you until you hit the bull’s eye. This slingshot is a weapon. It’ll get you squirrels and birds, and might take out a bad guy’s eyeball if you need it to. It’s important to know how to use it. That means training. I’ll teach you. And I’m keeping the flechettes until you’re ready to use them. To quote a famous philosopher: ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”
“That’s from Spiderman!”
“Superheroes can impart wisdom, too, Small Fry.”