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shut the door behind her.
    "What is it, Mom?" said her son Dalton. Dalton had given the town its name. Years before, a wealthy resident of Lakewood had built a cultural center in honor of his father. The goal had been to bring fine art and exotic culture to the rural area. Dalton had liked to go when he was small and liked new things. The building had been destroyed in the years following the corpses. The sign out front had once read "The D.W. Mitchell Memorial World Culture Center." Dalton had found pieces of the sign and hung them outside the makeshift gate to their town. He arranged them to read "World Memorial." Dalton thought it was darkly funny, and Angie had agreed. So the name stuck.
    Dalton appeared to be alone in the shed. He was fifteen now and far too pale for Angie's liking. "Is your ankle hurting?"
    "Nope," said Angie, lying again. She took a few steps across the small metal building that had been converted into a very rough laboratory. "I'm thinking we might have to call this crap off for a while."
    Dalton rolled his eyes. He sat on a wooden table that might have been a workbench at one time. Bright lights sat around the room, powered by a gasoline generator outside. They had several generators around the town. Angie wasn't sure what they'd all do when they ran out of gas. "I'm fine, Mom," he said.
    "You don't look fine," said Angie. "You a look a little too pale for me. I think he's taking too much blood."
    "I could save people, Mom."
    "You haven't saved crap, Dalton," said Angie.
    A small man with dark hair and round glasses stepped in from outside. Bitter cold air blew in before he shut the door. Two small electric heaters, also powered by the generators, strained to keep the room warm.
    "Whew," said the man, "the winters here really are miserable." The man was Dr. Jonas Graham. He had once been a biology professor at some university somewhere. Then he and his wife had retired to a farm outside Lakewood. Then his wife had been torn to shreds by two men they had thought were lost and had stopped to help. He'd found his way to World Memorial about a year ago. After learning his background, Angie had revealed Dalton's secret.
    "Or I guess I should say you haven't saved crap," said Angie, turning to Dr. Graham.
    "What?" said Dr. Graham, looking around before seeing Angie. "Oh, hello, Ms. Land. What were you saying?"
    "I was asking if you'd taken enough blood from my son, or if I should bring you a bucket."
    "What?" said Dr. Graham absently, like he'd only half-heard her. He whipped off his coat then felt his pants pockets. He felt around the coat he'd just taken off. He pulled out a few small vials and set them on the table next to Dalton. "I don't see why extra supplies have to be all the way across—"
    Angie leaned in next to him. "I told you to only take a little at a time. To use that little bit for as long as you possibly could."
    "Hmmm?" said Dr. Graham, moving to a battered microscope set on a shelf along the wall. It had been scavenged from the abandoned high school. He picked it up and brought it back to the table.
    Angie slammed her cane down inches from his right foot. So hard he almost dropped the microscope. "So how's that been going, doctor?"
    Dr. Graham blinked. He looked at Angie, then Dalton, then back at Angie. "I…um, well..." He swallowed. "What were we talking about?"
    "My son," said Angie, quiet but firm, "right over there. See him? Good. That's Dalton, who's been in this shed way too much lately, and looking way too pale afterwards."
    Dr. Graham frowned. He looked between Dalton and Angie again. "I thought we agreed to increase the testing."
    "I agreed to no such thing," said Angie.
    "I asked, Mom," said Dalton.
    "You what?" said Angie, turning to face him.
    "I told him to test more," said Dalton, looking sheepish but sitting up straight. "I told him you said it was okay."
    "What in the world possessed you to—"
    "Again with the saving people, Mom," said Dalton, crossing his arms.
    Angie