Ch. 56

They left the kitchen still chewing, crumbs dusting the center seam of Xander’s shirt. Out in the alley, the city was waking with a stutter—generators coughing, shouts echoing between too-skinny buildings, a radio somewhere belting the news in a language neither of them bothered to name. Xander led the way, boot soles loud on the cracked concrete. Carolina watched his back, the tension in his neck, the set of his shoulders like he was preparing for a punch he knew would land.

They wound through market streets, not talking, not needing to. At a cross-avenue, a ragged string of orphans peddled makeshift wares—bent screws, stained rags, a cat in a shirt meant for a baby. The twins from three floors down loped past, their faces painted with war stripes, laughing like they’d gutted the world and found something tender inside. Carolina almost smiled.

The meeting was at an old community center, doors chained but the windows open, a flag of something blood-bright fluttering from the roof. She recognized a half-dozen faces on the approach: a woman with a burn-scarred chin, a guy in surgical gloves and no shoes, a tall girl with eyes that said she would kill for a kind word. Most nodded, some glared, one just made a show of spitting on the walk as they passed.

Inside, the chairs were arranged in a lopsided circle. Xander and Carolina claimed a corner, where they could see both the door and the street out back. The woman with the ruined chin did most of the talking. There was a shortage coming—beans and bread and, if the rumors were true, clean water. One of the new gangs had snatched a shipment meant for the hospital, and now the market was full of knock-off medicine, most of it just colored sugar or worse.

Arguments bloomed and died in spurts. Xander folded his arms, half-listening, bullshit meter visible in the arch of his brow. Carolina took notes. When a red-haired kid shouted that the only way to stop thieving was to kill every thief, it was Carolina’s turn to speak.

“We tried that,” she said. “It just gives you more grass to cut next year.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but the kid fell quiet. The burn-scar woman eyed her, reluctant respect forming in the line of her mouth. “So what’s your alternative?”

“We protect the weak,” Carolina said. She felt Xander go still, listening closer. “The kids, the old. We take care of our own. Let them see there’s something worth losing before they try to take it.”

The room was silent long enough that Carolina expected laughter. Instead, the woman nodded, slow. “And when they come for you?”

“We’ll be ready,” Xander said, finally.

The meeting ended in a murmur of maybe and what-if. Carolina and Xander slipped out before the crowd, winding back toward the house with the sun angling down through the fog of exhaust and cooking smoke.

In the alley, they slowed. Xander paused just past a stack of shattered cinder blocks, one hand in the pocket of his coat.

“You believe what you said?” he asked.

She shrugged, not trusting her voice. “I guess I do now.”

He nodded, unzipping his coat enough to reveal a battered pistol tucked against his side. “You know this doesn’t end well, right?” His gaze was soft, not accusing. Like he already knew which way she’d tip.

“It never does,” she said. “Not for us.”

A moment passed. Traffic rattled in the distance, some poor idiot shouting to the gods for a lost dog or a lost sister. Xander dipped his head, lips brushing her ear. “You want to run?”

“I want to fight,” she said. “Next time, I want to win.”

He laughed, breath vibrating against her neck. “You’re fucking perfect.”

She hauled him in and kissed him, hard, biting his lip enough to taste blood. He kissed back, rougher, hands bracing her against the frozen brick until she had to gasp for air.

A stray cat pounced from the next yard over, spooking them into a stumble and a soft, mutual curse. She let go first. “Let’s bring ‘em hell,” she said, and meant it.

“After dinner?” he said, grinning.

She rolled her eyes but took his hand, letting the contact linger past casual. They hit the stoop together, shadows stretching long behind them, and she had the brief, wild thought that maybe it could last. This weird, stitched-together family, these two hearts that didn’t know how to break and stay broken.

Inside, the kids were already at the table: Morgan refereeing in a threadbare bathrobe, Lyra holding court with the other girls, Wynn hunched special at the end, penning notes in a battered notebook. Xander gave the room a wolfish once-over, then motioned for Carolina to follow him up to the attic. She shot him a look—later, she promised, and he shrugged like it was all the same to him.

At dusk, with the day’s worries jammed tight behind her chest, Carolina climbed the creaking ladder to the roof. Xander was there, as always, watching the city fidget from above.

“You ever think about what we do if it lets up?” she asked. “If the world goes soft again, like they’re saying?”

He considered. “I’d open a diner. Serve pancakes. Hide the best stuff under the tables for regulars.”

She almost laughed, but the ache inside her wanted to cry, too. “Would you really?”

“Sure. Blueberry, if we can find ‘em.”

She leaned on the rail, shoulder pressed to his. “If you cook, I’ll make sure no one guts each other over syrup.”

“It’s a deal,” he said.

Below, sirens started up. Not the kind that meant help was coming, but the kind that said trouble was already here.

Carolina watched it all, the city carved and burning and bristling with new hope. Xander’s hand found hers, fingers knotting. The two of them, as always, the last to leave a sinking ship.

Somewhere through the walls and halls below, the found family was gathering: closing windows, lighting candles, prepping for whatever happened next.

But up on the roof, for a moment, Carolina let herself feel lucky. Not for surviving, but for meeting someone who’d suffer every wound again if it meant they got to do it together.

“Tomorrow?” he said.

“Tomorrow,” she promised, and this time, she didn’t flinch from the word at all.