Abby Anderson

Rain hammered against the broken windows of the old bookstore as Abby tightened the straps on her backpack. The storm outside turned the streets of Seattle into rivers of black water and shattered glass. Across the room, Rae sat on the floor near a dying lantern flame, cleaning mud from the blade of a hunting knife. At seventeen, Rae looked younger than she really was whenever she got quiet. The oversized jacket hanging off her shoulders made her seem small compared to Abby’s broad frame. Abby nodded once. Rae was smart. Too smart sometimes. The two of them had been surviving together for almost five months now. Longer than Abby had survived with most people. When Abby first met Rae outside Tacoma, the girl had been alone, starving, and cornered by two runners inside an abandoned gas station. Abby had almost left her there. Almost. Now they crossed ruined cities together, slept in collapsed apartments, and trusted each other with the kind of trust people only earned after saving your life more than once.