In the quit they took a vote on whether or not to trade Roslyn to the stranger at the gate. They even gave her a say, demonstrating that democracy was no longer dead, even if civilization had long past belly-up six months back, when the virus first struck.
All 9 survivors had gathered on the faculty steps. No one would meet her eyes. The susceptible wintry weather sun above them did little to fight the bitter wind. Roslyn’s marrow was once ice and her enamel chattered. She desired to wrap her palms round herself, huddle down into the inexperienced college jacket she’d purloined from a student locker. But she didn’t. Spine straight, shoulders back. Her father would have been proud.
She cleared her throat. They couldn’t do this. She would give an explanation for why in a smart and rational
