Darla met the unlikely trio in a mess of tangled expectations and doubts. Doctor Krause had been firm with Darla—they did not just want to be a pawn in someone else’s chess game. But Spencer gave them no choice; he had vaccinated them against their will, dragged them down to his school, kept them captive until Darla arrived, and then released them without a thought for their future well-being. In the most basic and drastic terms, the vaccinated strangers arrived like slaves. You will live, but you will help, was the spoken decree.

In the time since Darla brought the resentful newcomers back to Whispering Waters, Ethan took a turn for the worst. His legs, crushed after a truck driven by a dead-man ran into him on his way home, showed signs of infection.

He needed amputation. Without it he would die.

Since that news came to light, Ethan’s surgery trumped everything. Darla was certain she had forgotten to eat yesterday, and she’d barely spent time with her own child.

She found a home only a few doors down that would work as an operating theater. Into the afternoon, the sun flooded a former dining room with enough light to aid the doctor in her surgical task. With the equipment gathered, the stage set, and the patient slowly slipping away, they knew the time had come.

“The tissue damage is too extensive,” Doctor Krause told them. “The blood vessels are crushed and his fever is spiking. I thought we could avoid it, I really did.”

“We knew it would come to this,” Darla said. “We’ve prepared for it. Let’s go. The longer we sit and talk about it, the better chance we have of realizing how stupid we are for trying.” She made a move toward Ethan, but Doctor Krause put out her hand.

“There is no way to prepare for this, Darla,” she said sternly. “Finding supplies and covering a room in sheets isn’t quite the medical miracle you’re hoping for. This is a dangerous procedure. And, even then, Ethan may still...” the doctor looked to everyone and weighed her words. “Amputation is not guaranteed safety for him. And before we move him, I need everyone to acknowledge that risk.”

Darla nodded, annoyed. “We know the risks, Doctor. But even you told us that he’ll die if we don’t. There’s no decision to make here. This boy is the reason we’re alive…if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here. All of us.”

“I’m well aware that I’m here because of Ethan,” Doctor Krause replied curtly. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked at her daughter, who hadn’t moved from her spot in the corner and watched the conversation with a bizarre juxtaposition of eagerness and apathy.

Joey entered the den, looking bleary-eyed; he’d taken to waking up in stupor, lumbering around in a state of perpetual confusion. How he had managed to situate himself in a prime position to move goods and services around after the Release baffled Darla. In the old world, he had been a gas station attendant and used his access to gasoline to set himself up in the first few days, but beyond that, Joey’s lack of discernible gifts made him more like a houseguest who had overstayed his welcome rather than a member of their small, but functioning community.

The man cleared his throat. Joey was young, but not too young: baby-faced, accompanied by a smattering of wrinkles on his forehead, crows-feet around his small, beady eyes. “So, this is it, huh?” he asked. “Operation day.”

Darla nodded.

“Who’s going then?”

“I am,” Darla answered without hesitation. “I just need someone to stay with Teddy.”

Ethan let out an involuntary groan and the room’s attention shifted back to him. Doctor Krause nodded as if someone had asked her a question and she was answering in the affirmative; she pursed her lips and pointed a long, bony finger at Joey.

“You stay here,” the doctor commanded.

Joey nodded and gnawed on a hangnail. “Good. I mean, like, I don’t even think I could do it. You know?” He shuddered and searched with his teeth for any other scraps of skin to pull and bite.

Even when Doctor Krause first suggested amputation, Joey’s pallor shifted from bright and rosy to a pastel yellow. The jaundiced look returned whenever Joey glanced at Ethan’s injuries—the black and blue and bumpy canvas of the boy’s non-functioning legs.

“Great,” Darla said. She didn’t entirely trust Joey to watch Teddy with the same attentiveness as the other housemates, but if her choices were that or missing out on Ethan’s surgery, it was an easy decision.

“We’ll totally play together. A fun game. Fun board game. Or something just fun,” he trailed off as he met Darla’s gaze, her hand itching above the gun in her holster. The short, dark-haired Raider put his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, jeez. I know, Darla. I’ll take good care of him. I’ll be the best babysitter ever. I always wanted kids or nephews…I’m not saying I’m good with kids, but I can be Uncle Joey. I mean, don’t even worry about it. It takes a village, right?”

Darla raised a single eyebrow and locked her eyes, and dipped her chin. “Joey,” she started, her tone a cross between menacing and exasperated.

“Yeah?” Joey replied.

“Seriously. Shut up.”

Darla and Doctor Krause carried Ethan out of the house on a stretcher lifted from a crashed ambulance. Ainsley followed behind. They entered the secured house through the open garage. At the far end of the garage they placed the stretcher down and worked together to pick up Ethan and carry him into the house—they went through a mudroom and through a small hallway and into the bright and light living room. A long dining room table, meant to seat a large gathering at Thanksgiving dinner, was their operating table. Darla outfitted it with blankets and pillows, and all of the surgical accouterments procured from the local hospital—which was not an easy journey.  Joey had found their last supply in a shop nearby: a battery operated handsaw. And he looked close to vomiting as he handed it over, the realization of its use dawning on him.

After all three women worked together to get his limp body on the table, Ethan lay exposed in just a pair of blue and white checkered boxer shorts. He had been in and out of consciousness, but as they gathered around, his eyes fluttered open and he saw Darla first.

“Hey,” he said to her and attempted a smile.

“It’s time, kiddo,” Darla replied and she grabbed his hand.

“Okay. Okay,” Ethan closed his eyes again. “I can do this.”

“You’re strong,” Darla told him. “Strong and ready. You’ve got this.”

“Doc?” Ethan rolled his head to the side. “What’dya got for me? We doin’ this old-school? Whiskey and a mallet to the head?”

“Morphine and a local anesthetic. Only I can’t give you much morphine…the risk is too great without a way to monitor your vitals closely. I’m sorry, Ethan…you will feel some of this.”

“I’ll feel it,” he repeated.

“You will,” Doctor Krause told him as she gave him his first shot. “But I’ll do the best I can.”

“Can’t I get a spinal or something? You need electricity for that?”

Doctor Krause smiled and adjusted her glasses. “Ethan, we don’t have options. I’m not a surgeon and I’m not an anesthesiologist. I want to keep you alive…we have to do this the way I know how.” She looked at him and winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be—” Ethan closed his eyes.

Darla held his hand.

The doctor administered another round of injections into Ethan’s wounds. He didn’t even flinch as the needles entered his flesh. She picked up a block of fabric off of one of the side tables—it looked like a luggage strap and it wrapped around Ethan’s leg five inches above his knee. Doctor Krause sighed and glanced at her ragtag surgery technicians; she looked calm, but her clamped jaw and narrowed eyes gave her away: she was nervous—scared even. She had been honest about her position as a family doctor; it was a job that did not lend itself toward emergency amputations. But it was too late now. They were committed.