Suffocation. Of all the ways she’d feared her sister might die in this new world, she hadn’t planned for that. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the bunker. She’d only seen it once, when Beth had proudly shown it off after construction. It was a single room with an en suite. Not large. She could have crossed it in five steps.
How much air does that hold? How long until the oxygen runs out?
The bunker was a glorified coffin. She pressed her palms into her forehead and clenched her teeth. A repressed sob sent miniature shockwaves through her. All of a sudden, it was so easy to see her mistakes. She’d missed Beth’s call the previous day through stupid absentmindedness. And she’d been complacent, believing there was time for her and Dorran to troubleshoot a plan to rescue Beth.
“I need…” Her voice caught. Dorran sat, waiting, at her side. She tried again. “The radio. I need to go back for it.”
“Later. Not right now.”
A hot anger bubbled up in her insides. She squeezed her gloved hands together as the heat seared through her chest and throat. “I have to tell her… She doesn’t know… I didn’t tell her about the masks. She needs to know she can cover her face with a mask.”
Dorran rested his hand on her shoulder. “We cannot reach the shed right now. Not while the monsters are still out there.”
“She needs to know to wear a mask.” The anger was compounding on the grief, building until it was uncontrollable. “It could save her.”
Dorran’s eyes were sad. She hated the way he was looking at her. He didn’t understand. They weren’t too late; there was still a chance to save Beth if they could just reach the radio. But he sat there, mute, doing nothing.
Clare lurched onto her feet. She was dizzy. She caught at the door, fumbling for the latch, but Dorran’s hands wrapped around hers and pulled them away. “No, Clare.”
“She’ll die without it.” Clare hit his chest. He flinched but didn’t let her go. So she hit him again. The anger, the revulsion with herself, and the blinding terror boiled over until she thrashed, half mad. “She’ll die. She’ll die. She’ll die!”
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her back from the door, and took the beating silently. Clare screamed until her voice was hoarse and struggled until her hands ached. He wouldn’t let her go. When she finally slumped, exhausted, he pulled her in closer so that she wouldn’t fall.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered, then he picked her up and carried her deeper into the house.
Chapter Sixteen
The fire crackled. Clare was holding a mug, though she couldn’t remember how it had come to be in her hands. Her insides felt like they had been scraped raw. Her throat burned every time she swallowed.
She hated the mug. It seemed so normal, so mundane. Like something a person held and sipped after a happy morning in the snow. Not the kind of thing someone got to enjoy when they’d let their sister die. She lifted it, ready to hurl it into the fire, but Dorran took it out of her hand before she could.
He silently wiped the spilt tea off its side and base then placed it back on the coffee table. Then he disappeared back into the room’s shadows. His expression was unreadable. She hated him.
No. No, you don’t. You hate yourself. Stop projecting it onto him.
The scratching noise had followed her inside. It made her wild, but at the same time, it filled her with a horrible sense of resignation. Scrabbling, scraping, coming from every direction, from inside her head, was always there, wearing her down.
This is the reality of the new world. No one gets to escape them. It’s just a question of how long you can last.
Tears ran down her cheeks. She was too tired to do anything, even cry properly. The universe had given her a second chance with Beth, and she’d ruined it. Now that the radio was gone—now that Beth was gone—she could think only of the things she should have said. Beth had needed to know to wear a mask, now more than ever. She needed to know how to get to Winterbourne. She needed to hear that Clare loved her.
Clare had been given the chance to tell her all of that, but she’d lost it, disregarding it with a curt, “Can’t talk.”
She rubbed her palms over her eyes to dry them. Beth had been right—there was no room for mistakes in the new world. She should have known better.
And now you’re pushing away the only other person in your life. You can’t rely on second chances with him, either.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was hoarse. She turned in her chair and searched the shadows for Dorran, half afraid that he’d left the room without her noticing. But he was still there. He stepped forward, his expression drawn but not unkind.
“It’s all right. Do you want to try again?” He offered her the cup of tea. “It will help.”
She took it, holding it tightly to stop her numb hands from dropping it. He’d made her tea with some of the powdered milk from her luggage. She sipped and cringed as it hurt her raw throat. Then she carefully placed it back on the table. “Dorran, I’m sorry. I hit you—”
“Shh, it’s all right.”
His mother used to beat him. Clare shook her head vigorously. “No. No, it’s not.”
Moving slowly, he sat beside her in the chair. She reached up and ran her fingers across his cheek. He hadn’t cleaned off the blood yet, and it had dried across his face and neck.
He still smiled. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. Did I hurt you badly? Are
