Maybe her mother had meant this kind of loneliness—the ache of living beside someone who felt like a stranger, the emptiness that hurt worse than being alone.
It was time. Time to go, to strike out on her own.
But the box sat heavy in her hands, and no matter how much she wanted to, Raven couldn't leave it unopened. She despised herself for the weakness, for the curiosity she couldn't smother.
She set the envelope aside and slid her fingernails beneath the cardboard flaps, tearing through the tape. Styrofoam squeaked under her fingers as she dug through the packing until something solid met her touch. A knife.
The handle was pale, off-white polymer carved into the shape of a howling wolf. The blade was short, curved, sharp—perfect for whittling. Raven's breath caught. She hadn't carved anything in three years. Not since the day her mother left.
Disappointment washed over her, sharp and familiar. What had she expected? Last year it had been a hoverboard, as if she were still ten. The year before, a secondhand SmartFlex, useless and forgotten in a drawer. Her mother didn't know her anymore.
She flicked the blade closed and shoved the knife into her pocket. She didn't want it, but she couldn't leave it here. A gust of wind might send it tumbling into Vlad's enclosure, and the tiger—who swallowed anything—would make short work of it.
Her gaze fell back to the envelope. White, square, waiting. Only her mother still wrote letters instead of sending messages. But then, the internet had been sputtering for weeks, collapsing like everything else. Maybe, Raven thought reluctantly, her mother was smarter than she gave her credit for.
Her stomach twisted, a knot of dread tightening until she thought she might choke on it. She didn't want to read the letter. What was the point? Words couldn't fix anything. They would only reopen wounds she'd worked so hard to scar over.
But her fingers betrayed her. Almost against her will, they crept toward the envelope. With a sharp rip she tore it open, eyes skimming her mother's familiar script—precise, flowing, achingly familiar. Her vision blurred, traitorous, as if her body refused to let her stay numb.
The words stabbed at her: miss you, love you. Each one a blade twisting in her gut. And then, near the end, a line that made her heart lurch: I'm coming to get you. With everything that's happened, it's too dangerous for you there.
Raven's breath caught. She fumbled for the envelope, checking the date. Nearly three weeks ago. Her mother had promised she was coming. For the first time in three years.
So where was she?
Her eyes raced over the rest: messages to her father that had gone unanswered, warnings about failing connections, about things collapsing outside the refuge. I'm worried this is it. The end. A mention of a Settlement, fortified and safe. A plea: Until I come, wear your mask. Be careful. If I can't reach you, then come here. Find good people. Don't be alone. I love you.
Raven's hands trembled as she crushed the letter into her fist, paper crumpling under the force of her anger. Safe place? Promises? Her mother thought she could ride in like some savior, swoop her up after years of silence, after abandoning her to cages and fences.
Her jaw clenched until it ached. Old pain bloomed in her gut, twisting tighter with every breath. Who was her mother to decide she cared now? To pretend she could fix what she had shattered?
The tiger below flicked his tail, yellow eyes glinting in the sunlight. Raven stared down at him, her pulse hammering. Vlad didn't need saving. He was power, hunger, survival. And maybe, she thought bitterly, so was she.
No thanks. Raven could handle things just fine on her own. She'd been taking care of herself for years—long before Aiko Nakamura had walked away, chasing something she'd never found.
Still, the letter gnawed at her. Her breath quickened as she stared at the words, the promise. If her mother had truly tried to come, she hadn't made it. Something must have happened. Raven knew the commune was near Ellijay, tucked in the north Georgia mountains. Even in the best of times, traveling alone was dangerous. Atlanta was gang territory, a labyrinth of predators. And now?
Now there were a hundred ways to vanish. Gangs. Desperate thieves. The fevered millions coughing themselves into graves.
Raven told herself she didn't care. That it didn't matter. But of course it did. Blood was blood, no matter how bitter the distance.
A frantic shout shattered the air.
Raven's head snapped up, her body stiffening. For a heartbeat she thought it was her father—catching her on the tiger house roof, catching sight of the backpack that betrayed her plan. But no. The voice was ragged, broken.
Zachariah Harris.
He stumbled along the path near the bobcat enclosure, his frame hunched, his steps uneven. Raven hadn't seen him in days, not since the coughing began. Her father had ordered him into quarantine, locked away in the loft above the Grizzly Grill.
She remembered the last time she'd tried to bring him food, her mask tight against her face, gloves crinkling as she carried the tray. He'd laughed weakly, shooing her off. "Your father would kill me," he'd said, before the laugh dissolved into a fit of phlegm and pain.
Now he was out. And he was shouting.
Raven's pulse hammered. The refuge had rules, boundaries, fences. But Zachariah's presence here—his voice, his stumble—was a crack in the order. A warning that the collapse outsid
e was bleeding in.