I don't speak to them. At first, I'm too high on pain and bliss to mumble more than nonsense. When my shoulder is back in its place and my legs aren't crooked and my head stops bleeding, I'd rather sit still on the side of the highway and listen.

The woman with curly hair speaks to herself. "Maybe I used too much." Her voice is sharp, yet laced with her nerves, much like her hands.

The slight man with the shoulder holster scoffs. "And why would you do that? You know we need to save." He's curt and has no accent.

"Well, Bronte, he's not exactly a greyhound."

"Now we'll need to stop for more in the next town."

"Worst thing that can happen, he's doped for the rest of the day."

The curt man clicks his tongue. He too knows that it's far from the worst thing that can happen to me out here. "We need to get out of here."

"Not without him. We kinda ran him over, we owe it to him."

"You ran him over."

"Bronte."

"We don't know if the nearest town is safe."

"Bronte."

"And we only have supplies for five days."

"Four days for five people, more than enough time to stop for a quick refill."

Another woman's voice chimes in from inside the car I rest against. "I can drive if he comes with us. Really, have some humanity, Bronte." Her voice is thick with the breath of a singer.

The one called Bronte frowns, about to open his mouth to retort.

Then a child's voice. "Can he play Mario Kart with me?" And with the resigned shrug from the man, I think the decision is sealed.

Later I learn Silas was the one driving when I ran into the highway. Surya is the former singer who drives now, and Fran is the kid.

"What do we call you?" Bronte says; to his chagrin, sitting beside me.

"Did you choose a name yet?" asks Silas from the front seat, and I nod. "We did too, except Fran," her voice trembles. I still hesitate to tell them. All eyes on me are not the most encouraging.

"So," says the man, arms crossed. "Are you mute, foreign, illiterate, or just too proud?"

"Bronte!" chides Silas, horrified. "Don't be rude!"

I respond merely out of spite. "I just didn't have much to say."

"So neither mute nor illiterate." Bronte puts effort into being cold.

"Eden," I say, at last.

"Not proud, either." He leans against the window and closes his eyes.

"Well, Eden," says Silas. Her voice makes it sound like the place; I wonder how it feels in Bronte's voice. "Welcome to the crew, at least until you're better. We're not the type to leave you there to die— unlike some people." Bronte shows no sign of listening. "And— really, I'm really really sorry, I've gotten used to clear streets, I wasn't paying attention, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," I tell her. Not many would've stopped to make sure I was human. "Thank you for being decent."

Surya sighs, a low silky sound. "Hard to find nowadays."

 "Fran said it's empty," I tell him while the rest are asleep and he keeps watch.

He rolls his neck. "Aren't you tired?" he sighs.

"Aching too much to sleep." And it's true. Whatever painkiller Silas gave me was either meant for dogs, already wearing off, or both. "A Glock, was it? Were you a cop?"

"Army." He only speaks because I drag it out of him.

"To pay for college?"

"To pay the bills."

I don't want to push that particular topic, but my curiosity burns. "So why an empty gun?"

"In case of emergency."

I wait for him to continue.

"It still has one bullet."

"And... what is it for?"

"An emergency."

"What good is a single bullet if you're surrounded by the Turned?"

"You really have no idea, don't you?"

If I could throw my arms in the air, I would, but that'd only irritate him. "Alright. Why do you travel with them?"

He snorts. "What is this, an interrogation?" Guess there's no way not to irritate him. "Fran and Silas are my cousins and Surya is her partner. I owe Silas a favour, so I'm helping them to the camps."

"You're not staying?" 

"Who knows if the army'll take me back. Go to sleep, Eden." He pronounces my name like one would pronounce a death sentence.

I do manage to sleep, but not without the same dream. I wake up as tired and aching as I was the night before. For a moment, I think I see a flash of sympathy in Bronte's sharp eyes, but it's gone as soon as it appeared.