My meals over the last year have consisted of canned goods and the occasional — and dreaded — dehydrated food packet. As Sophia and I sit down to eat, I pick up my fork and roll it between my fingers.

Such an alien feeling after eating with my hands for months.

I lift the fork to my mouth and freeze, my eyes landing on Chris in the corner of the room. He’s standing with his hands shoved casually in his pockets, completely relaxed. He looks clean and rested. Handsome.

And he’s talking to a girl.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sophia asks, smirking.

I ignore her. The girl talking to Chris is tall. Way taller than me. Platinum blonde hair falls to her waist, framing a pair of striking blue eyes. She throws her head back and laughs, placing a hand on Chris’s arm.

I swallow thickly, a sick feeling stabbing me through the heart.

“Who is she?” I say, frowning.

“Her?” Sophia follows my line of sight. “Oh, she’s pretty.”

I glare at her.

“I mean, if tall and blonde is your thing,” she corrects, clearing her throat. “Um, I don’t know. Just another refugee, probably.”

The girl is wearing a holster on her thigh, along with a combat jacket.

She’s not just another refugee.

And then Chris turns and waves at me. I wave back half-heartedly, watching as he walks over to us… and the blonde follows. I set the fork down, the eggs and bacon forgotten.

“Cassie, hey,” Chris says, smiling affectionately. He kisses the top of my head, and a bit of the tension in my stomach dissipates. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better,” I reply. “I slept good. How about you?”

“Fine.” He turns to the blonde. “Cassie, this is Vera, Angela Wright’s daughter. She’s the platoon commander of Red Dog, under the command of the militia Legion under her mother.”

I meet her unflinching gaze, disappointed that she’s even prettier up close than she was far away. Why do these people always have to show up around me?

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey,” Sophia adds. “I’m Sophia.”

“Morning,” Vera replies. Flat. Monotone.

“I’m going to get some food, then I’ll be right back,” Chris says, patting my shoulder. I take comfort in that tiny bit of physical contact.

“We’ll be right back,” Vera adds as he walks away, offering a weak smile.

“We’ll be right back?” I echo as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Who the hell does she think she is? Why are they getting breakfast together?”

An angry dragon coils in the pit of my stomach, threatening to breathe fire. I fist my hands under my legs, watching her converse with Chris as they wait in line.

Who is she?

“Hey, relax,” Sophia says, handing me my fork. “She’s just a girl. It doesn’t mean anything.”

I start eating, my gaze on the two of them. I hardly taste the food. In fact, it’s a little dry and pasty, now that I think about it. It sticks to my throat and settles in my stomach like a lead weight.

Chris returns with Vera and they sit at our table.

“So Chris tells me you’re from Los Angeles,” Vera says. Her voice is smooth and light. Feminine. “I was in San Diego when the pulse hit. I’d love to hear your story, though.”

I shrug.

“If you’ve heard one story, you’ve heard them all,” I say, stabbing a potato.

Sophia kicks me under the table.

“My mother and I escaped on foot,” Vera continues, leaning her fist against her cheek, looking sideways at Chris. “Everybody in our apartment building, actually. We call ourselves the Legion now. My mother was stationed in San Diego. She was in the Navy. It was only natural that she take over.”

She takes a bite of food, watching my face.

“Oh,” I say. “That’s interesting.”

Sophia kicks me again.

“Vera just got back from a scouting mission,” Chris tells me, picking up a steaming mug of coffee. “She says Omega is still on red alert trying to locate our militia groups. Until the heat dies down, we’ll lie low here and work with the militias in camp.”

“Oh, you’re a scout?” Sophia asks Vera.

“In my spare time,” she replies, smiling.

“Your spare time?” I say.

“Yes. When I’m not scouting I’m helping my mother manage the Legion.”

“The family business, huh?”

This time it’s Chris who pinches my leg.

I shut my mouth, knowing that I’m acting childish and jealous. But I can’t help it. I have zero chance of competing against a girl like this, and if Chris ever realizes how great he could have it with another woman, I’ll be left alone.

I shudder and push the thought away. I’m an adult. I need to act like one.

Feelings of teenage insecurity have no place in war.

After an awkward breakfast with Vera, Chris informs me that we’re supposed to show up at another meeting in the Headquarters building. This time, Vera comes with us. Sophia stays behind, since her presence wasn’t requested. We leave the chow hall, Chris and Vera trading stories about their militias… while I walk beside them in silence. What I really should do is interject with a few stories of my own. I certainly have a lot of them…

When we reach the Headquarters building, Angela is waiting at the front door. She smiles broadly at the sight of Chris and Vera walking together.

I cross my arms.

“Good morning,” she greets. “Thank you for coming. I see you’ve met my daughter.”

Her words are directed at Chris. Not me.

I pick up on this immediately.

We walk inside. The commanders are waiting around the table, and once again, I wonder why I’m here. I’m not a big time leader…then again, neither is Vera. We’re more like assistants to our militia commanders.

Dad is seated at the table, clean-shaven and dressed in crisp military garb. We lock eyes for a second as I sit next to Chris, Vera on his other side. Angela — who I’ve realized is the spokesperson for the board of commanders — shuts the front door and takes a seat at the head of the table.

“Well,” she says, casting a glance at me, “shall we begin?”

“What exactly are we discussing?” I ask.

“Our next move,” she answers. “Where should we start, gentlemen?”

“I say we start right in the thick of the thing,” Commander Buckley suggests. “We’ve got a lot of new men here now that the Fighters have showed up. Our numbers are growing. We can send out militias for longer periods of time because we’ll have more people that can stay behind and guard the camp.”

“So you’re suggesting that we send out a couple of militias at a time,” Dad says, “and leave a couple behind to guard the camp? That’s what we’ve been doing already.”

“Yeah, but now we have more men, so…”

“Excuse me,” I interject, taking a deep breath. “Who’s in charge?”

Nobody answers.

“I mean,” I correct, “is anybody in charge?

Or is everybody here equal?”

“Everybody’s equal,” Angela answers, looking irked.

“So… there’s no leadership structure in this camp?” I ask.

“Each militia leader looks after his own men.”

“But what about the people who aren’t fighting? What about straight up refugees?” I point out. “Who do they take orders from?”

“They don’t. They’re just here to survive.”

“And what if they decide to do something stupid?”

“Like…?”

“I don’t know. Mutiny or something.”

“We would stop that from happening,” Commander Jones says.

“Because you’re in charge?”

He blinks.

“All I’m saying is,” I explain, “there’s no clear picture of leadership going on around here. Nobody knows who’s in charge of what, and the bigger this camp is, the more differing opinions you’re going to get, and you need to divide responsibilities up more evenly. People need to know that somebody’s in charge.”

Chris folds his hands under his chin, gazing at me thoughtfully.

“She’s right,” he says. “We’re in charge of our own militias, but nobody’s really running the camp. Anarchy could sweep in fast if it has the chance.”