The sun rose pale and gray, the kind of light that made everything already finished.
Edward stood at the edge of the bed, unmoving. His room was still in chaos from the last couple of days: a duffel bag half-zipped against the closet, water bottles arrayed on the nightstand, a half-unloaded gun beside the window.
He hadn't slept. Not a wink. His eyes were burning, his joints ached, and down deep under the gauze wrapped around his shoulder, the skin crawled with a slow, dull pain.
He hadn't touched the dressing since he had wrapped it up the night before. He convinced himself there was no necessity to check. The CDC had made it clear.
Seven to fourteen days.
He said it out loud for the seventh time that day.
"Seven to fourteen. Still within the window."
But something about saying it didn't do any good anymore.
He stood, moved across the bedroom with leaden feet, and lingered at the splintered door. The house creaked gently in the morning air—the building settling or maybe just complaining. The walls were too thin. The silence was too thick.
He moved into the hallway, slow, measured, glancing toward the boarded guest room. Empty now. Kyle had removed Sam last night.
It felt longer ago than that.
In the living room downstairs, the light was flat, filtered through cheap plywood nailed over the windows. He passed by the cold hearth, the photos still facedown on the mantle, and into the kitchen.
The TV was still on.
It was muted—he couldn't stand the din anymore—but the live broadcast streamed in the corner, gaudy and clashing with the black room. A morning news anchor sat stiffly at the desk, face powdered and pale, clearly reading from something just out of frame. The marquee scrolling along the bottom of the screen read:
BREAKING: RIOTS UNDERWAY IN SEVERAL METRO AREAS. STAY INDOORS. CDC AGAIN: NO SYMPTOMS, NO SPREAD.
Behind the anchor, tape unspooled.
Edward caught a ten-second repeat: a shaky phone shot of folks in the street—running, police lines melting away, a scream. A guy on a rooftop firing into the air. The camera jerking back and forth before the tape rewound back to the newsroom.
No sound. Just flashing chaos.
He moved over, remote in hand, and flipped the set on.
A flat, too-smooth voice filled the room.
"—containment breakdown reports within western corridor locations of Franklin and Newbridge. National Guard have been deployed, but citizens are requested to stay indoors and make all contact with others as small as possible. Again, exposure only transmits the virus. No symptoms to speak of, no transmission. We urge the public to get calm."
Edward switched it off.
The subsequent silence was intolerable.
He turned away from the sink and filled a glass with water. His hand shook a little as he lifted it, the rim of the glass striking his front teeth. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. He wasn't hungry. He didn't feel anything at all.
The wound throbbed once, one beat like a drumbeat somewhere under the skin.
He turned on the faucet, rinsed the glass, and caught a glimpse of himself in the glint off the microwave door.
He looked tired.
No—empty.
He looked at his pupils in the dim light. Still level. No bleeding gums. No sweating, no shaking. All fine.
But the thought snuck through anyway:
What if this isn't the same?
What if Sam hadn't infected him with the same model the CDC was talking about? What if that's why she changed faster, harder, and what if that model was in him, too, traveling through his veins?
He stepped away from the microwave and into the hall.
The light outside had become white glare on the boards. He double-checked the door locks, although he already knew they were locked. Then double-checked them again.
He was in the doorway of the guest room before he knew it.
The bed remained tousled. The blanket twisted up where Sam had folded in on herself. Her smell lingered there—skin, oil, something warmer underneath. He walked in, stood in the middle of the room, and regarded the bedsheets.
There were smudges of blood on the wall near the doorframe—small, fingerprint-sized smudges from when he'd closed the door on her so forcefully.
They appeared to be dry.
That didn't seem right, somehow. Like they shouldn't have dried out yet.
He turned hard, surprised by a sound—merely the floorboards creaking, or maybe the wind knocking against an open shutter.
He was pacing in circles.
He knew it.
But yet, still, he went into the living room, took the shotgun from where it was propped against the couch, and sat down with it in his lap.
He wouldn't inspect the dressing yet.
He wouldn't call anyone. Not yet.
He wouldn't lose it.
Not yet.
He sat there, shotgun in hand, while the shadows stretched across the wall and the sky outside turned a little more yellow.
And he whispered to himself:
"I'm still me."
And waited to see if something inside would whisper back.