Tyrel came around to visit once a week, usually on Saturday evenings when we did not have to worry about getting up for work the next day. He always brought dinner from one of the few restaurants operating near the refugee districts, a luxury Sophia and I could not afford. But for Tyrel, being in a volunteer militia meant he had ample opportunity to scavenge the countryside and loot the bodies of infected he killed. A lucrative, if dangerous, line of business.

When Sophia wasn’t around, which was not often, he tried to talk me into leaving the Construction Corps and joining up with his militia. Due to his advanced training and combat savvy, he had been promoted to a senior leadership position within the ranks.

“I’m in charge of hiring,” he told me often. “All I have to do is say the word. You wouldn’t have to break your back anymore, and you’d make a hell of a lot more trade.” (The word ‘trade’ had come to replace ‘money’ in casual conversation.)

My usual reply was, “Yeah, and Sophia would cut my balls off.”

“No, she wouldn’t. She’d just be pissed, and you wouldn’t get laid until you started bringing home food worth eating and some nice furniture. Then she’d get with the program.”

I resolved not to test Tyrel’s theory, and I didn’t. At least not until a Tuesday evening in late September when I found Sophia crying and everything changed.

I came home from work the same as any other day. My feet hurt, my back was a wreck, and I had the beginnings of a headache riding over the horizon. I wanted nothing more than to let Sophia wipe the dust from my skin, eat something warm, and sleep for ten hours. But when I turned up the driveway and saw the doors open, I went on my guard.

“Sophia? You home?”

Her voice, tearful. “Yes. I’m here.”

I walked up the drive and stepped through the door. Sophia had started a fire and sat next to it, face in her hands, wiping tears from her cheeks. I hurried over and knelt beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t respond, just kept sobbing. I pulled her hands down and tilted her face up. “Sophia, look at me. What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

When I walked in the door, my mind immediately went to Lauren and the attacks she had endured. If someone had hurt my Sophia, they were dead. There would be no remorse, no hesitation, no mercy, just a movement at the corner of their eye and then nothing. My teeth ground together as I tried to remember where I had put my fighting dagger.

“No, Caleb. No one hurt me.”

I blinked a few times, let out a breath, and released Sophia’s wrists. My fingers left red marks. “Okay. Can you to tell me what’s going on?”

“Sit down, Caleb.”

I was getting very tired of people telling me to sit down, but I did it anyway. “Sophia, you’re freaking me out.”

She took my hands and held them. “Caleb …”

“What?”

She looked up, and the fire caught in her eyes, and they gleamed like stars in the winter sky. My breath caught in my throat and I wondered if I would ever breathe again. I leaned closer, brushed my lips against her cheek, and pulled her close to me.

“Sophia, whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. I’m right here.”

She put her face in the hollow of my shoulder, took a long, shaky breath and said, “Caleb, I’m pregnant.”

*****

The next day, I traded my Beretta for a new pair of boots.

After months of mixing concrete, shoveling dirt, and exposure to wind and sun, my old clothes were just about done for. I picked out five new outfits of sturdy outdoor wear and paid for them with four boxes of nine-millimeter cartridges. Everything else I needed was waiting for me at home.

Done with shopping, I left the market, walked to the offices of the Civil Construction Corps at The Citadel Mall, and turned in my resignation. The clerk looked hard at me across the table.

“You sure you want to do this?” she said. “It’s getting harder to find jobs with the city these days.”

“I have something else lined up.”

She shrugged and stuck my form in a box. “Well, best of luck then.”

Next was a visit to Tyrel. I wasn’t sure if he would be home, but luck was with me. He opened the door, took a moment to read my face, and knew exactly what I was there for. “About damn time,” he said. “Come in and have a seat. I’ll put on some tea.”

The tea tasted better than anything I had ever drank. Tyrel didn’t have any sugar, just the artificial stuff, but considering my options over the last few months had consisted of either cold water or hot water, it was heaven in an enameled cup.

Tyrel sat down across from me, a satisfied smirk on his face. His chairs were proper chairs, complete with foam and cloth and springs. I leaned back and tried to remember the last time I had sat in a comfortable chair. Sophia and I often joked to one another that we lived like the Japanese, most of our time spent sitting on the floor.

“So,” Tyrel said, “what changed your mind?”

I sipped my tea, let it rest on my tongue a few seconds, and swallowed it gratefully. “Sophia is pregnant.”

His cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”

I nodded.

He put his cup down on a little wooden table. The presence of such luxury made me feel like a peasant in a lord’s manor. “I don’t know what to say, Caleb. Congratulations?”

“I’ll take it.”

My old friend smiled. “Congratulations, then. You’re gonna be a daddy.”

I ignored the flip-flopping in my stomach at that statement and smiled back. “I’ll do my best.”

“Does Sophia know?”

“Well, being that she’s the one who told me …”

“Hardy-har, smart ass. You know what I mean.”

I sighed and held my tea in my lap. “No. I haven’t told her.”

“She’s going to be pissed.”

“Yes. Yes she will. But she’ll get over it.”

“Well, I think this calls for more than just a cup of tea.” Tyrel stood up, lit an oil lamp, closed and locked the front doors, and started digging through a box behind his chair. A few seconds later, he returned with two small glasses and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. While he poured, I gulped down the rest of the tea, not daring to waste it.

I accepted a glass of amber liquid and gave it a little swirl in the golden lamplight. Tyrel raised his in the air and said, “To fatherhood, prosperity, and better days ahead.”

“Cheers.” We clinked glasses and drank.

FIFTY

Sophia did not take the news well at all.

In fact, I’m reasonably certain she was just next door to a rage blackout. And that was before she began throwing random missiles at my head. Lucky for me her aim was off, although there were a few near misses.

I explained myself in a reasonable manner. I told her we could barely feed ourselves, much less a baby. She countered that other people had kids and seemed to be getting by just fine. I told her that was true, but those kids were all toddlers or older. I had not seen a baby since arriving at the Springs. She told me she had, perfectly healthy ones.

I asked her what she planned to do after the baby was born. It was not as if there was a plethora of childcare options to choose from. She glared angrily and said we would figure something out.

Sensing an opening, I said, “Sophia, you’re going to have to stay home with the baby. Without the food your job brings in, we’ll go hungry.”

“No,” she replied firmly. “We won’t. We’ll just have to make due with less.”

My temper began heating up. “Listen. I’m not going to raise a child half-assed. I have valuable skills. I’m going to use them. I’m going to provide for this family by doing what I do best, and that’s it. End of discussion.”

Wrong. Thing. To say.

I slept on the roof that night and spent the rest of the week at Tyrel’s place.

Early Monday morning, when I knew Sophia would be home, I went back to get my things. There was a very shrill voice in my head worried that Sophia had thrown my belongings in the street, but when I turned into the driveway, there were no signs of anything having been discarded. The smell of flatbread and boiled potatoes wafted through the half-closed doors. I knocked and poked my head in.