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wooden platform in the joint of two limbs. “Right there.” Narrow slats run up the trunk to make a crude ladder.
    “A tree house?” I ask.
    He mumbles something that sounds like beer stand .
    “A beer stand?” I picture rednecks selling beer like kids sell lemonade from a stand.
    “Deer stand,” he corrects. “Hunters sit in it and shoot deer.”
    I blink at him a few times.
    “And it’s up high,” he continues. “We can hide there and the zombies—beg your pardon, the infected —can’t get us.”
    “How do we know they can’t climb?”
    “They can’t if I break off the rungs as we go.”
    Is this kid a total idiot? “Um, Cole, without rungs, how will we get back down the tree?”
    “The nails’ll still be here. We can slide down. Slow our momentum on the nails.”
    “Sliding down a tree full of rusty nails. That sounds fun.”
    “Listen, if you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”
    I’m too exhausted to argue, and with daylight failing, we don’t have time to find another spot. I move toward the tree. For a minute all I do is stare up at it, weighing my options.
    Is this really a good idea? Could we get trapped in this tree? Like, for the rest of eternity?
    “Lord God, this sucks,” Cole says coming up behind me. And for the first time, I notice his voice is low and deep—not twangy like some rednecks. “You go on up before I start breaking these rungs.”
    I’ve never climbed a tree before. Not once in my entire life. I study the wooden slats, unable to take that first step. A few cold stars have popped out above the sunset. I can’t shake the feeling we need to get off the path and out of sight before darkness falls.
    Cole snorts impatiently. “What’s the hold up? You scared of heights?”
    “No…bugs.”
    He studies me for a full second—like I might be the craziest person ever —then gestures at the leaf-strewn ground. “Well, by all means, stay down here with the zombies instead of the scary bugs.”
    The boy has a point. With a sigh, I begin scaling the ladder. Cole follows behind me, and kicks off the first rung.
    “You know, City-Girl, insects hibernate in winter.”
    Secretly, I’m pleased to know something he doesn’t. “Actually, Banjo Boy, a large percentage of North Carolina wasps remain active in November. Some of them swarm right before they go dormant.”
    “Hibernate, dormant, whatever.”
    Snap! Below me, another rung bites the dust.
    I reach the top of the rickety ladder and haul myself onto the board. And really, that’s all it is. Just a four-foot square of particleboard wedged in the tree. Thin, wobbly, and small. But my entire body wants to throw a party because it can stop walking and rest.
    “So, what are you, a wasp expert?” Cole yells up to me.
    I peek over the platform edge.
    Snap! He kicks another thick slat to the ground. For a brief instant, I forget the bugs and infected people and my complaining muscles. How in the heck can he break those boards so easily? This boy must have some seriously strong thigh muscles. Suddenly, without meaning to, I’m picturing the bare legs beneath his camo pants. And it’s not an unpleasant image. Not in the slightest…
    “Hello!” Cole says, reminding me we’re in the middle of a conversation.
    My face burns. “Me, um, no. I’m not a wasp expert.” My brain snaps back to the present. “I’m, just uh…interested in insects.”
    Wow. That’s the understatement of the year. For a second, I consider telling him the truth. After all, if I hang out with a person for any length of time, they should know about my allergies—not the generic ones, like, pollen makes me sneeze and I can’t wear wool. I’m talking about the other allergies, the life-threatening ones: penicillin, cephalosporin, insect bites and stings. Stuff that seriously messes me up. Stuff that could kill me in ten seconds flat.
    I take a deep breath, steeling myself. It’s obvious Cole already regrets bringing me along, and