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.”
    “Your sleep isn’t my concern. Chaplin, c’mere.” I patted my thigh, hoping my dog wan’t so taken by the stranger that he’d refuse me.
    But when Chaplin trotted over—just after one last glance at Gabriel—I hugged him. Hugged him hard.
    My voice was muffled by fur. “You can convalesce here as you require. But after sufficient time, you and your miracle gel will have to walk.”
    “Then I’ll just get my rest, miss.”
    Jay-sus. It’d do no good for him to be “miss”-ing me all the time. “The name’s Mariah. You might as well call me that. But don’t think it’s an invitation to stay.”
    “I understand, Mariah.” He sank down to his blankets and closed his eyes, his lips spread in a bruised grin.
    Not trusting him an inch, I sat on the couch and faced our guest, my hand near my holster. Then, since I had nothing to occupy myself for the coming hours, I ended up just watching him: taking in his wounded features, his . . . lure. Yeah, that was what it was. I couldn’t not watch the stranger.
    Little by little, I even allowed myself to open fully to him, to be saturated with him. All the while, my blood heated, simmering until every pop was agony.
    It wasn’t until Chaplin nuzzled my hand that I got hold of myself. Then, in control once again, I continued my vigil, counting the moments until Gabriel would thankfully leave.

4
     
    Mariah
     
    J ust after dawn broke on the visz bank, I gave up on guarding against Gabriel, who was still resting, and got to work farther belowground. I left Chaplin lying next to him, but I wondered if my dog was too taken by our guest to sentinel properly.
    Hoping he’d be as ferocious as Intel Dogs could be, I retreated to my living area, where I dressed in work garb and strapped on my helmet, which featured a lightweight solar-battery lamp that Dad had once contrived. I left Chaplin to do his thing while I went to work. I had no other choice, because there were too many things to see to, like mining water down below the dwelling, culling enough food for today’s meals, and molding more ammunition for my revolvers just in case Stamp saw fit to bother us even after Gabriel had chased away his man last night.
    After one last look at Chaplin nestled all content and happy at Gabriel’s relaxed side, I headed for the north tunnel’s door, went through it, and switched on my headlamp as I turned round to ease the door shut.
    The light showcased the wooden barrier I’d handmade out of a salvaged billboard from an old highway. On it, the faded sign of a crucifix stood at an angle, rays of light emanating from its glory. GO WITH THE ANGELS, it said, right above a church address that had long since been torn asunder, just like most religions before organizations of personality had replaced them: Web leaders, saviors of society, pop culture idols that substituted for spirituality.
    All that remained of this church’s address was CALIF.
    And then a tear, right down the side, cutting off the name of a state that pretty much no longer existed.
    I turned my back on the sign, but that didn’t quite do the trick. Most days I could look at that crucifix and derive a sad bit of optimism from it, reminded that there were people who’d once believed in something they thought was pure. It made me g w there had to be more waiting for me in the future than things that’d been ripped and nearly shredded. But today, after Gabriel’s bloodied arrival, that crucifix only reminded me of screams, red, agonizing gashes, my mom and brother red-soaked and reaching blindly for life as Dad opened fire on the burglars, spraying bullets over his loved ones in the process, too.
    Unsteadily, I picked up one of the waterpacks that sat near a table made out of an old fruit crate. While sliding the straps over my shoulders, I caught sight of myself in a mirror that canted over the table, something I avoided doing as much as possible because it was too hard to see how much I’d changed.
    But now