The hamster wheel inside my head started up, trying to figure things out from this new angle—and running smack into a wall again.

You’re taking this really well, Dru. You just shot your dad. How are you going to explain this to the cops?

Well, technically, with as fast as zombies rotted, there wouldn’t be anything other than a broken door and a bullet hole to explain. I could say it was there when we moved in, that my dad worked nights, and that’s why he couldn’t come to the door—

A dry sob caught me unawares. I folded my arms across my stomach and hunched over. I rested my forehead on the cool, slick material of the table, and it felt good. Almost as good as the cold porcelain of a toilet when you’re really, really sick.

My stomach roiled again.

Don’t throw up, Dru. Don’t you dare throw up on that floor.

Dad’s voice echoed in my skull now, the usual mantra while I worked the heavy bag. Work through it, sweetheart. Come on. One more for Daddy. Do it. Come on, girl, that’s not going to cut it! One more for me! Come on!

“Jesus,” Graves whispered. He sounded a lot older than a sophomore now. “How bad is it?”

My teeth chattered. I almost choked on a laugh. How bad is it? It’s so bad you have no idea. That’s how bad. “Just go away,” I said to my knees. How had I managed to tie my boots? I didn’t even remember getting dressed. I was out in public here at the mall. What was I wearing?

Jeans. I could feel socks. I had my boots on. I plucked at the edge of my T-shirt and saw it was red. I was wearing Dad’s spare Army jacket, and there was a heavy weight in the right pocket that had to be something deadly.

Jesus Christ, I’m armed in public. Dad would kill me.

“Dru?” His voice had gotten deeper. “How bad is it? You really can’t go home?”

I blinked. I had my gloves on, and someone was talking to me. I uncurled, sitting up. The world fell into place, colors and sounds not running like tinted water over glass. The Orange Julius was across the food court, and its sign suddenly seemed like the most wonderful, brightest beacon of hope in the world.

I smelled french fries, hot grease. I wanted to eat. My stomach growled so loudly I hunched my shoulders, hoping he couldn’t hear it.

Graves shifted in his chair again. Then he pushed his paper cup across the table. “Take a drink. Your coffee’s cold.” Still in that quiet, oddly adult voice. No teenage bluster at all in the words.

I grabbed it, sucked at the straw. The taste of strawberries and fake ice cream exploded against my tongue, cutting through and erasing the stink of reanimated death.

He hauled himself up to his full gawky height, scraping the chair back unmusically against the flooring. “Stay here, okay? Just for a second.”

I nodded and took another long swallow. He strode off, using those long grasshopper legs to his advantage. By the time I finished the smoothie he was back, sliding a tray across the table. It was a bacon cheeseburger and fries, with a vanilla milkshake I grabbed at. I wolfed the burger in what seemed like two bites while Graves settled back in his chair, tapping his fingers at the edge of the table. He didn’t shuck his coat, but he did take a few fries. He’d even brought packets of ketchup, and the only reason I didn’t tear into one was because the thought of the thick red inside made the food back up in my throat.

I slurped the last of the vanilla shake and thought of throwing up. Graves hummed along with the Muzak, tapping at the table’s edge. He was offbeat, but it didn’t seem to bother him much.

“Thanks,” I said finally, shoving my hair back behind my ears. The curls had turned to frizz again.

“No problem.” He shrugged, bony shoulders moving. “First one’s free. Look, you really can’t go home? What happened?”

I shot my dad. But it’s okay, he was one of the walking reanimated. The bacon cheeseburger fought for freedom. I put down the revolt with a slight burp that tasted like fake dairy product and slightly-less-fake beef. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His mouth had pulled in on itself, compressed into a thin line, and his gaze was dead level.

I stared at his right hand, the way the fingers lay against the slickness of the tabletop, the nails bitten down to the quick. His knuckles were still red and chapped, like he’d been outside a lot in the cold. He still had really good skin. A little bit of lotion would probably fix him right up.

I could draw his hand. I bet I could. I’d have to shade it more than I normally do to get all the textures down. “I just can’t go home,” I heard myself whisper. “Not until tomorrow.” Maybe not even then, either. I don’t know.

Graves was silent for a few moments. His hand was tense against the tabletop, all relaxation spilling out of his fingers. Muzak swelled through horns and synthesizers, echoing through the food court like the noise inside my head. I finally placed the song.

It was, of all things, an inoffensive rendition of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Dad liked that sort of music. Every new town we landed in, it was my job to find the oldies station and the classic rock station. I didn’t know what Dad would think about one of his favorites having its nuts cut off and played over a mall speaker system.

He’s not going to be thinking about anything ever again, Dru. The tears rose again. I snuffled, swallowed hard, and glared at Graves, daring him to say something about me blubbering like a kid.

Finally, he sat back, taking his hand off the table. “Do you have a place to sleep?”

I wish I did. “I’ll find somewhere.” A flophouse hotel, or I’ll ride the buses all night. Or something.

More silence between us. I heard a high, cawing laugh, and glanced over at the Orange Julius to see two blonde girls giggling behind their hands. They had a pair of jocks with them, one strapping dark-haired guy I’d seen at school and another who looked like his cousin or brother.

I felt a million miles away from them. Normal goddamn teenagers, acting like idiots in front of a fast-food place. The dark jock put his arms around one of the girls and picked her up. She shrieked with laughter, the sound as bright as new spilled pennies. Her shirt rode up, showing the supple curve of her back. It was snowing outside and there was a zombie dead in my living room, and here this girl was, dressed like a hooker and laughing.

My hand curled into a fist. I took a deep breath.

“I know a place.” Graves said it quietly, leaning forward across the table. He braced his thin elbows and rested his chin on his fist. “If you want, you know.”

Oh, Jesus. Not now. “Why is it there’s always a guy who thinks he can get something out of the new girl?” My fingernails dug into my palm. “Every goddamn town, it’s the same thing. Some guy thinks he’s God’s gift to the displaced.”

“I just asked if you wanted a place to sleep.” Graves hunched his shoulders defensively. “Jesus.”

Then I felt bad. It wasn’t his fault I had a dead zombie in my house. The back door was open; the place would be freezing in the morning. I couldn’t think about going back until daylight.

Then what will you do, Dru? Dad’s voice in my head, as if he was giving me a test. What’s going to happen then? You need a plan. Right now you’re running on rabbit.

Graves was still peering at me, his eyes darker greenish under his curly mass of hair. His earring winked again, a hard clear dart of light.

“Sorry.” My throat ached. How loudly had I screamed? Had anyone heard the gunshots? I couldn’t stop wondering about it. “It’s been a bad day.” You have no idea how bad it’s been.

“No problem.” He spread his hands, brushing away the apology. His coat whispered as he shifted in the creaking plastic seat. “So, I’ll take you someplace you can sleep tonight. Someplace safe. Okay?”