us home from the day shift, there’s no way they’d let us work the night.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Kira, shifting her weight on the hard floor of the wagon. “I’m going to head home, get cleaned up, and fall asleep. I might wake up for the party this weekend, but I’m not making any promises.”
“I wouldn’t miss that party for the world,” said Marcus. “Xochi’s gonna make a chicken—a real, live chicken. Though I suppose it won’t be live for long. I’ll even pluck the scabby thing myself.”
“You think her mother will be there?”
“Senator Kessler?” asked Marcus, his jaw falling open in disbelief. “Xochi owns a gun now—Kessler won’t get anywhere near the place.”
Kira laughed and nodded. She hoped Xochi wouldn’t actually shoot her adopted mother—but she couldn’t be sure.
“Just bring something to share this time,” said Kira, turning back to Marcus and tapping him pointedly in the chest. “I’m not covering for you like last time.”
“That was a one-time thing,” said Marcus, laughing, “and it wasn’t last time, it was four times ago, and I’ve covered your share way more than that.”
“I’m just saying,” said Kira, poking him again in the chest, “I don’t want my good-for-nothing, freeloader boyfriend to make me look bad in front of everybody. Again.” She poked him one last time, glared at him playfully, then poked him again for good measure.
“Do you poke all the boys, or am I special?”
She leaned closer. “It’s just you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Until somebody better comes along.”
Marcus put his hand on the back of her head and pulled her in for another kiss, on the mouth this time, slow and soft and perfect. Kira pressed herself closer, feeling his body against hers, thinking about what he’d said at the clinic. Was it time? Was she ready?
“Guys,” said Brown, “I’m like two feet away.”
Kira pulled back, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“I’m not,” said Marcus. “Totally worth it.”
“You said the blue house, right?” Brown pointed ahead to the row of houses, and Kira recognized her street.
“Yeah, the blue one’s mine.”
Brown nodded. “Is Romeo getting off with you?”
“I would,” said Marcus, “but Nandita wouldn’t let me in anyway. I’m just two streets over, if you can do it.”
“Not a problem.” The young soldier slowed the wagon and pulled the horse to a stop. Kira gave Marcus a final peck on the cheek and hopped off.
“There’s Nandita,” said Marcus, straightening up and pointing. Kira turned and saw her working busily in her garden. Marcus lowered his voice. “See if she’s got some herbs for the chicken.”
“Rosemary, I assume,” said Kira, and Marcus nodded with a grin. “Anything else?”
“Whatever she can spare,” said Marcus. “Everything in your garden is awesome.”
“You got it,” said Kira. “Thanks, Brown.”
The soldier smiled. “Call me Shaylon.”
“Easy, tiger,” said Marcus. “She’s spoken for.”
The wagon pulled away, and Kira shouldered her pack and walked toward her house. Kira shared her home with several other girls and their “nanny,” Nandita, though after eleven years she seemed more like a grandmother than anything else. Between the Partial War and RM, no family had survived intact: Every surviving wife became a widow; every child an orphan. Those few humans who’d been immune to the virus had banded together for protection, gathering here on Long Island because it was a developed, defensible position with good access to fish and arable land. The children had been divided among the adults, and Nandita had happily laid claim to four of them: Kira, Madison, Ariel, and Isolde. Ariel had moved nearly three years ago, on her sixteenth birthday, and Madison had moved in with Haru when they got married. Ariel had hardly spoken to any of them again, but Kira loved them all like sisters.
Nandita was working in the garden, and Kira could smell the exotic mix of aromatic herbs: rosemary, nutmeg, anise, cilantro, basil, marjoram. . . . Kira helped in the garden every summer, and she still couldn’t keep track.
“Does Marcus want rosemary on the chicken this Friday?” asked Nandita. The old woman straightened up from the garden, brushing soil from her hands. She spoke quickly, almost impassively, but Kira could tell from her eyes that she had been worried sick the entire time Kira had been gone.
Kira smiled.
“Did you hear him?”
“I didn’t need to hear him,” said Nandita. “That boy has a one-track mind.” She grunted and stood up, picking up a basket of fresh leaves and sprigs and berries. Even while gardening, she was wearing a sari. “The market was good today. Help me inside.”
Kira shouldered her pack and her medkit, following the old woman up the porch steps and in through the doors; Xochi’s music was blaring upstairs, and Kira smiled. She’d have to go talk to her when she was done helping Nandita.
Nandita loved all her girls, but she’d always had a soft spot for Kira. Maybe because she was the youngest, or maybe because she was so precocious; Kira remembered helping Nandita in the market as a child, calling out fearlessly to passing adults and ordering them sternly to buy a sprig of mint. Nandita called her the Little Explosion.
Sometimes Kira felt guilty that she had so many memories of Nandita, and none of her real mother. Her father she knew, but her mother . . . It was okay. She had Nandita.
“Did anything exciting happen while I was gone?”
“My Little Explosion almost died in a big one,” said Nandita, pushing the door open. The previous owners—the Martels, according to the papers and photos and scrapbooks they had found inside—had died with the doors locked, and the early survivors had been forced to break them open to get inside and clean up the bodies. Nandita had replaced the door four times over the years, as one or the other of the girls had forgotten their keys after a long night out. Replacing the door, she said, was preferable to leaving it unlocked. It wasn’t like the island was short on unused doors. Kira dropped her pack inside and followed Nandita into the kitchen.
“You have grown up well,” said Nandita, turning in the kitchen doorway and regarding Kira with a smile. “You will make a good wife.”
“Um, yay?”
The woman walked to the counter and set down the basket, opening the cupboards to look for bowls. “You do not want to be a wife? You are not going to marry Marcus?”
Kira opened a cupboard and handed Nandita a ceramic bowl. “I . . . haven’t really thought about it.”
Nandita stopped moving, turned, and stared at Kira. Kira squirmed uncomfortably, waiting for her to look away, then finally sighed and threw up her hands. “Okay,
