"So did you have a good sleep together?" Molly asked with a smile. "I hope you were gentle with her—a bullet wound is extremely painful, and she needed proper rest."
I glanced at her with an expression asking 'are you serious?' "She's stronger than she appears. And she's not my girlfriend."
The clarification came out perhaps more emphatically than strictly necessary, which only seemed to amuse Molly further based on the way her smile widened slightly.
"Tell me, boy—how old are you exactly?" Molly asked suddenly, her tone shifting from teasing to genuinely curious.
"Seventeen," I said simply.
I'd turned seventeen back in June. The others had held a small celebration for me—nothing elaborate, just shared rations that were slightly better than usual and a few kind words. Our situation had been too dire for anything more substantial, and honestly, I hadn't wanted anything bigger. Surviving another year felt less like an achievement and more like postponing the inevitable.
