Miranda reached out and took his hand away from the glass. “What’s going on in there, Caleb? How are things supposed to work between us if you won’t open up?”

Hicks pulled his hand away, suddenly angry. “Do I ask you about your life before the Outbreak? Do I grill you about your time with the Free Legion?”

He regretted it even as he said it. Miranda’s expression grew brittle, sapphire eyes shimmering against her porcelain face. Her hands trembled as she clasped them together in her lap and dropped her gaze. “No,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, M. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re right. I have no right to pry.”

Hicks closed his eyes, rested his elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands, frustrated.

On one hand, he was in the right. Since the Outbreak, it was an unspoken rule you didn’t talk about life pre-Outbreak. You didn’t ask people what they did, or if they had families, or who they lost. If someone wanted to volunteer that information, that was fine, but it was impolite in the extreme to ask. The kind of thing that could easily start a fight. It reminded Hicks of how prison inmates weren’t supposed to ask each other what they were in for, or how war veterans hated talking about the war. He thought about the three million or so Americans who survived the Outbreak and how most of them suffered from PTSD in one form or another. An entire nation of prisoners and war veterans and victims.

A nation in mourning.

On the other hand, Miranda had just spoken one of the most heartfelt declarations of love he had ever heard, and he had thanked her with a proverbial slap in the face.

I am a son of a bitch, he thought.

“Miranda, I didn’t mean that. You have every right to ask. I just … I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it yet.”

“You’re wrong, Caleb. I didn’t have the right to ask. Because if you asked me about my family, or how I survived the Outbreak, or what the Legion did to me, I’d tell you it’s none of your damn business. It was selfish of me to pry. Hypocritical. How can I expect you to talk about your past if I’m not willing open up about mine?”

“Give me your hand, M.”

She did.

“Maybe someday we’ll be healed enough to talk about our past. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t. I don’t know. What I do know is we’re both here now, we’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Everything else is just picking up the pieces.”

Miranda looked up with a sad half-smile, and Hicks felt a vise clamp around his heart. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s both say we’re sorry and leave it at that.”

“Agreed.”

They finished their drinks in silence.

FOUR

They made love that night.

It was not as it usually was, with laughing, and caresses, and kissing, and long, languid movement of body against body. They went to bed in their nightclothes. Hicks lay on his back with his hands behind his head, a cool spring breeze blowing through the open window. Miranda lay beside him with her back turned, curled in upon herself, silent.

Then, without preamble, she rolled over and leaned over Hicks’ face and kissed him urgently, one hand disappearing beneath his waistband. Hicks breathed in sharply against Miranda’s mouth and felt his body respond. Hot tears dripped against his cheek, prompting him to gently grip her slender arms and push her away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Shut up,” she said, and twisted loose from his hands. Her shirt came off, tossed carelessly into a corner, and she began tugging at Hicks’ shorts. He raised his hips so she could pull them off, then had to bite down on a moan as he felt the warmth of her mouth around him. He said no more until she climbed on top, and then it was all grunts and hard breathing and Miranda’s insistent hunnh, hunnh, hunnh, hunnh.

And then it was over.

She stayed on top of him for a while, face buried in the hollow of his shoulder, saying nothing. With one hand, Hicks stroked her back with his fingertips, tracing the hollow between muscles and spine. With his other hand, he ran his fingers through her long hair, sweeping it back from her face. Finally, she sat up, kissed him briefly, and went to the bathroom. There was the sound of water running.

Hicks thought about the tower on the other side of town, and how nice it was to have running water. A moment later, Miranda emerged and crossed the room naked in the moonlight. She knelt next to Hicks with a damp cloth and began cleaning him up. He lay still, staring at her silhouette against the window.

“It’s never like you see it in the movies,” she said. “It’s messy.”

“In more ways than one.”

Miranda made a low sound that might have been a laugh. “Very true.”

Finished, she tossed the soiled cloth into the laundry bin and retrieved her shirt, then lay down beside Hicks. He offered to lift the covers for her, but she said it was too warm. Her arms went around his chest and they lay quietly together in the slowly cooling night.

“What was all that about?” he asked.

“I’m not sure if I even know.”

“If you figure it out…”

“If I figure it out.”

“Goodnight, M.”

“Goodnight, Caleb.”

*****

Hicks reported for duty the next day, which was a Saturday, well before sunrise.

First thing in the morning was PT, led by Staff Sergeant Kelly. Normally it would have been led by Sgt. Ashman, but he and Lt. Jonas had been called to company HQ at Fort McCray. There was much speculation as to why, with opinions ranging from suspicion of wrongdoing to rumors of a forthcoming offensive against the Midwest Alliance.

Hicks suspected the reason was far more innocuous.

Ashman was a damned good sergeant, easily the best in Echo Company. He had served in the Army for over fifteen years, had a bachelor’s degree in history—earned via online courses prior to the Outbreak—and his service record was spotless. Hicks suspected Ashman was being offered a commission, and said as much to Derrick Holland.

“You think?” the diminutive soldier asked, brow furrowed in thought.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Hicks replied as they dropped to the ground at Sgt. Kelly’s command and began doing pushups. “Fifteen years in, pre-Outbreak combat experience, college degree, exemplary record. I heard there’s more officer billets out there than qualified officers to fill them. We lost a lot of people during Relentless Force. Seems pretty obvious to me.”

Holland looked over and grinned. Hicks knew what was coming next.

After PT, Kelly ordered the platoon to clean up and get ready for patrol. As they bathed in the field showers, Holland began taking bets on why Lt. Jonas and Sgt. Ashman had been called away. The prevailing sentiment was that one or both of them were in some kind of trouble, until Holland posited the theory that Ashman was getting a promotion. The idea caught on quickly with no one willing to bet against it. Not to be deterred, Holland started taking bets on whether or not Ashman would accept the commission. That got people wagering.

Hicks listened, but remained silent. He was not a betting man.

After patrol and chow, Jonas and Ashman returned. The lieutenant, never being one to mince words or keep his men in suspense, called for everyone’s attention.

“I’m sure you’re all wondering why Sergeant Ashman and I were called away this morning,” he said. “If you were thinking we’re in some kind of trouble, the answer is no.”

He waited for the inevitable round of chuckling and low comments to subside, a small smile on his face, then said, “Thankfully, the reason is a much happier one. Master Sergeant Ashman,” he nodded his head toward the platoon sergeant, who stood nervously, hands clasped behind his back, “has just accepted a field commission to the rank of second lieutenant.”

If he was expecting a round of applause, he was to be disappointed. Instead, he got a mournful chorus of WHAT? and Come on, man! and Dude, you can’t leave the platoon! Jonas forestalled their complaints with an upraised hand.