I do know.

After a lengthy exam and another painful scrubbing procedure to keep the wound clean, Desmond announces, “I’m done. You’ll be fine.” He claps me on the back. I notice for the first time that he’s got beads and feathers threaded through his crazy long hair. “Like I said, you’re lucky.”

“Maybe,” I mutter.

I ease myself off the table.

“Do you know where to find the barracks?” Angela asks, watching me closely.

“East side of the meadow.”

“Right. Do you need any help getting over there?”

I shrug. She looks at Desmond. He nods.

“Take the jeep,” she says, standing up. “I’ll see you later, Cassidy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Desmond rifles through a drawer, taking out a keychain.

“Let’s go, kiddo,” he says, walking me through the medical building. There are a few other militiamen waiting in a large room crammed with cheap metal chairs.

A waiting room? Some things never change.

Around the back of the building, an old jeep with a red cross painted on the door is parked near the rear exit. Desmond climbs in. I pull myself onto the passenger seat as he starts the engine.

“You got to check out the gift shop later, kiddo,” Desmond says, driving towards the meadow. “They’ve got card games, refrigerator magnets. I think they’ve even got gummy bears.”

“Gummy bears?”

“Yeah. You know. Colorful. Edible. Gummy.”

“I know what they are.”

“Thank God. Imagine a kid that didn’t know what a gummy bear was.”

I roll my eyes, chuckling.

“How do they get their hands on this kind of stuff?” I ask.

“Whatever was left when the EMP hit is what they trade people for.” Desmond takes the right hand turn in the fork. “It’s real popular with the kids. They like toys, you know? Besides, running a gift shop kind of makes people feel like they’re living in a real community. They swap stuff back and forth for all kinds of items.”

“It is real,” I say. “It’s just…different.”

He doesn’t reply.

He drops me off at the meadow. I thank him for his help, then watch our resident hippie drive off in the jeep, hanging one arm out the window. Carefree — or so it seems. I turn and walk towards the women’s barracks. Women of all ages are milling around the front steps of the small buildings. Laundry is hanging out to dry on tree branches.

I spot a familiar face from the Freedom Fighters and ask her if she’s seen Sophia. “Yeah, she’s in Bear Paw,” she says.

“Thanks.”

I head towards a cabin on the edge of the premises. Sophia is sitting cross-legged in the doorway, smiling serenely. “You were gone a long time,” she says. “What happened?”

“Dad took us to meet the militia commanders,” I reply.

“And?”

“And that’s pretty much it. There are six of them, counting Chris.”

“Are they friendly?”

“They’re okay.” I walk inside the cabin. Wooden bunk beds line each wall. Two sinks are pressed against the far end of the building, and there are two doors. One contains a shower. The other contains a toilet. “Do we have running water?”

“Yes.” Sophia grins. “It’s cold, but it’s great.”

“Who else is staying in our barracks?”

“You mean in Bear Paw?” she shrugs. “I don’t know. This was the only empty one left. Isabel is staying with the Youngs in a separate cabin.”

“Good.” I dump my backpack onto an unclaimed bottom mattress. “I guess we should settle in then.”

“I guess.”

I sit on the mattress, closing my eyes.

It’s time to rest.

I end up oversleeping.

Like, a lot.

I simply plop back onto the plastic coated mattress and close my eyes, shutting out the world around me. I’m too exhausted to dream. I rest peacefully, waking only when Sophia nudges my shoulder.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says. “Get up. Breakfast.”

I blink rapidly, shooting straight up and hitting my head on the top bunk. The wound in my side protests the sudden movement. I wince.

“Ouch!” I roll out of bed, rubbing the sore spot on top of my scalp, the stitches on my side. “That hurt.”

“Uh, huh.”

I unzip my backpack, rubbing my eyes. “Did anything happen while I was out?”

“Nope. Nobody’s in this cabin but you and me.” Sophia glances around the room, then wrinkles her nose. “You need to shower,” she says, tossing me a towel.

“Subtle hint?” I ask.

“Not that subtle. It’s been a week at least,” she grins.

“Okay, okay. I’ll shower.”

“I went out last night and checked out the camp while you were sleeping. I got these.” Sophia gestures to two stacks of neatly folded clothes on one of the empty bunks. “Clothes and shoes. There’s a supply shack up the road from the general store. I traded some ammo for this.”

“You traded ammo?” I exclaim. “Sophia, we need every bullet. You can’t just go around giving it away.”

“I didn’t give it away. I traded it. Besides, Cassidy. We need these. You know that.”

I sigh, grabbing one of the stacks.

“Yeah, I know.” I head to the bathroom, turning the faucet. Water sprays from the nozzle head, ice cold and clean. I shiver and strip down, piling my gross clothes on the tile floor.

“Glorious, isn’t it?” Sophia calls from the other side of the door.

“It’s cold!”

“It’s water, what do you expect?”

I scrub every inch of dirt and blood off my body that I can manage before drying. I hold up the clothes that Sophia traded for. Black combat pants, green shirt, and soft, new socks. I pull everything on. I feel…nice. Refreshed.

My stomach growls.

And hungry.

I comb my wet hair back with my fingers, stepping out of the shower room and peeking in the mirror. “Whoa,” I gasp. My face has thinned out. My cheekbones are sharper. My skin is darker. Pale white scars trail along my neck and down the side of my left cheek. Reminders of the brutal atmosphere of war.

“I look pathetic,” I state, turning away from the mirror. “How come you look so normal?”

“I don’t look normal,” Sophia snorts. “I just don’t care about how I look, and neither should you. We’re alive. That’s the whole point, right?”

I open the cabin door.

“Yeah. That is the point, but…”

But that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.

The air is crisp and cool at this hour. The sun is coming up over the trees, and the campground is alive with activity. Women and men are lounging on the meadow, talking. Sophia and I leave the cabin area and hit the main road, heading for the chow hall.

I’m starving.

The building is crowded. Armed guards are standing outside. They nod professionally as we pass. We climb a wide flight of stairs and enter through two large glass doors. The interior is an open dining room, within which are at least two hundred cafeteria-style tables and chairs. A long counter in the back of the room separates the kitchen from the eating area, and people are lining up along the length of it with plates and trays.

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I say, sniffing bacon and eggs. Pancakes and syrup. “This is better than Christmas.”

“This is better than anything,” Sophia laughs. “Come on, let’s get in line.”

We grab a tray, a plate and some utensils from a stack and get in the back of the line. I scan the crowd for Chris or Dad, but I don’t see them. I don’t see Isabel or the Youngs, either. The loud din of voices echoing off the walls makes my head hurt, but the voices are happy. Content. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be in a calm, peaceful crowd. But as soon as I set my plate on the counter, I forget about the noise. I’m given a small mountain of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and cottage potatoes.

There is nothing better than this.

I cling to my plate like a prospector guarding his gold claim, Sophia right behind me. We’re dying with anticipation. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had a fresh meal on real dinnerware.