Breakfast went the way it always should: eaten while it was hot, followed by a quick wash-up. Apart from her thigh which she dared not strain Mrs. Yuigahama felt no particular discomfort, thanks in no small part to Sosuke Kitahara's quiet, attentive care.

Now and then she heard noises outside. She knew he was out there doing something, though what exactly she couldn't tell.

After a while the morning brightened. Sosuke came back in, slipped an arm beneath her knees and shoulders, and smiled. "Time to move. We'll clear these fields first. Once we hit the expressway, we can head straight for the airport."

A complicated light passed through her eyes. She glanced around the little house at the tidied table, the neat bedding inexplicably reluctant to leave. Knowing they would go today tugged up a small, surprising grief and a misty uncertainty about what came next.

…

Half an hour later, a dirt-filmed Audi Q5 rolled onto the airport expressway. Even at fifty or sixty kilometers an hour, the SUV kicked up a high plume of dust behind it an image that would've been unimaginable not long ago.

A young man in dark sunglasses drove at an easy lope, fingers tapping the wheel to a soft tune. In the passenger seat, a refined, self-possessed beauty sat with her cheek turned toward the window, taking in the emptied world beyond.

"Should we try the radio?" Mrs. Yuigahama asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "If the airport's broadcasting, we might catch it."

As the distance markers ticked down, Sosuke cut the music and hit scan. The numbers on the display spun and spun, but no station locked in like stones sinking without a ripple.

"Nothing. Looks like Narita's been abandoned for good."

He reached to switch back to music when, abruptly, the digits froze. Static hissed and then a woman's voice, urgent and loud, burst forth, repeating the same lines over and over:

"Emergency notice! Emergency notice! This is the Yamanashi Prefecture Official Shelter Emergency Broadcast. If you can hear this, please make every effort to come to Yamanashi Prefecture. We have supplies and troops, and nearly over a hundred thousand survivors. The Yamanashi Official Shelter will be your safest home…"

The words detonated in Mrs. Yuigahama's chest like a string of firecrackers. She snatched up the paper map, eyes shining. "Kitahara, did you hear that? Yamanashi's hundreds of kilometers from Chiba, and we can hear them this clearly then it must be safe. Thank goodness. Letting Yui go with her uncle really was the right call."

She pressed her palms together in a quick, grateful gesture. Sosuke, though, didn't swallow the broadcast whole. "Don't get too rosy about it. I'm not saying Yuigahama Yui's in danger. I'm saying: with a shelter that big, supplies will be tight. If the leadership's rotten, life inside might be worse than life out here."

"Then what do we do? We can't not go if a shelter that size is there and Yui's there…" Her voice thinned with worry, as if she feared he'd turn the car around.

"We'll go," he said, shaking his head. "But not yet. First I have to find my three friends. And even when we reach Yamanashi, let me scout it first. If it's what the broadcast promises, I'll come back for you. If not, it's easier for me to pull out alone."

She nodded. Caution cost nothing. After a pause she asked quietly, "And if… your friends aren't at the airport?"

"They will be." His hands tightened on the wheel. Even as he said it, a small, sour doubt puckered inside.

…

"Whew. There's the airport."

He eased onto the brake. The Audi shrieked, skidding to a stop. Every approach was choked off; they'd have to detour and bushwhack. The Q5's lifespan took another hit, but it hauled them through.

"…You've got to be kidding me."

Through the binoculars Sosuke stared at a colossal white structure twisted like paper. The tornado had gouged through here like a living thing. All across Narita, mid-size airliners lay scattered and upended shredded wings, broken fuselages, metal strewn like bones.

He tamped down the gnaw of worry. They were parked toward the far end of a runway; behind them stood a smattering of houses. No sign of movement anywhere; the place sprawled, indifferent and bare.

"Kitahara…"

Her soft tug at his sleeve snapped him back. He sighed. Without comms, searching blindly would be a thimble against the sea.

"Ten days," he said at last. "If they haven't shown by then, we leave for Yamanashi."

He squared his shoulders again. The three women had all learned the breathing method its first gift was buying the body time, keeping it from tipping over the edge. As long as they weren't truly gone, a life-or-death crisis could even trigger an evolution. And they'd had the bus for cover. Unless luck had been impossibly cruel, survival wasn't out of reach.

He grabbed a can of spray paint from his pack, hopped down, and jogged to a place anyone with binoculars would check. In large block strokes he wrote KITAHARA. If they made it here alive, they'd see it from any angle.

When he returned, her face was tight with worry. He made himself smile. "Our luck's not bad after all. Didn't find much useful earlier, but on the way back I spotted some red-flower grass. It's a great medicine for your leg."

He opened a plastic bag to reveal several odd, threadlike stalks purplish red.

She stared, skeptical. She'd seen plenty in this life but had never heard of grass closing a wound. "That can treat it?"

"It can." He slid into the driver's seat and shut the door, the herb resting on his palm. "A lot of modern meds were born from plants like this. And the miracle isn't just healing your wound it's healing clean. Spread the paste and it'll knit fast, and in less than a month the scar fades. Good as new smooth and "

He cut himself off.

"Nonsense. Nothing works like that." Her ears and cheeks flushed a delicate pink. Sunlight painted her profile; a stray lock lifted at her ear. For all her annoyance, the thought of no scar set a quiet gladness moving inside her. A woman is a woman she was no different. The idea of a jagged line marring a pale thigh pinched like grief.

Practical even in embarrassment, she'd pulled on safety shorts for the change of dressing. This time she let him slide them down without protest and unbind the makeshift bandage. The flesh around the wound was faintly swollen, hot and red. Sosuke mashed the herb into paste, uncapped the alcohol, and said gently, "I'll clean it first, then apply the medicine. It's unrefined, so the sting won't be less than iodine last night. You'll have to grit your teeth."

She nodded. The alcohol seared; then came the paste. The instant it touched her skin, fire and needles bloomed together.

"Ah !" Her hands balled into fists; sweat sprang bright on her brow. She held out as long as she could then the pain rolled her under. She slumped, fainting clean away.

Sosuke shook his head with a rueful smile. "Good medicine, bitter mouth." He knew how vicious the herb's bite was and hadn't warned her; if he had, she might never have agreed.

He smoothed the paste evenly and in the slanting light couldn't help noticing again: skin so white it dazzled, the long round of her thigh springy beneath his fingers. Nearly forty, he thought, and kept like this. He coughed and reached for the bandage. Her breathing steadied, soft as the ticking heat outside. Somewhere beyond the car a zombie howled; inside was very quiet.

He tied off the wrap and, after a moment's thought, lifted a towel from the backseat to drape over her legs. Even unconscious, she was disarmingly lovely. A tug in his chest answered then he let it go. Some things couldn't be rushed.

Yesterday had spent her to the dregs: the chase, the bad news, the drug, the fight to survive. Her body would be tired, yes but her heart might be more tired still. To take advantage now would be to win small and lose everything.

He drove to an open vantage near the runways, locked the doors, taped newspapers over the windows to block lines of sight, tipped his seat back, and, after one last look at her sleeping face, folded his arms and let his eyes drift shut.

He didn't know how long he'd been out. He woke with a start and looked straight to her. Mrs. Yuigahama was awake, reclined against the seatback, watching him with an unreadable expression.

He rubbed his eyes. The dash clock read noon. He felt clean and sharp again after those hours of hard sleep. "You're up. Hungry?"

She hesitated, twisted a little, glanced around, and then back at him. Color crept into her cheeks; she bit her lip, plainly flustered.

"What is it?" he asked. "Just tell me."

That made it worse. She turned away, mortified. After a long, long pause, she all but whispered, "I… I need to… use the bathroom."

His mouth opened and closed. Her face was scarlet; his ears felt hot on her behalf. People had three urgent needs; it wasn't as if they hadn't both been ignoring them all morning.

He reached for the door handle, meaning to step out and give her privacy, then paused and looked back. "Can you… manage by yourself?"

She shook her head, lips pressed tight. The urge was mounting too fast to think straight. "Kitahara, is there… a toilet nearby?" The words rushed out and she wanted to sink through the floor. Her face burned.

"Out here?" He scanned the empty apron and the scrub stretching away. To steer wide of any clustered infected, he'd parked far from the houses.

She looked stricken. Any movement tugged at the wound; squatting was impossible. The pressure mounted, panic prickling humiliation close behind.

He understood in a beat why she was trapped, why the color, why the shine of tears. His heart kicked once. She was in agony. He clenched his jaw, then stepped to her door. "Ma'am, forgive me. This is… the only way."

She startled. "What are you going to "

He lifted her in his arms.

Mortification flooded her. Being held like a child at such a moment "Kitahara, no! Put me down put me down right now or I'll be furious!"

He could feel his pulse in his throat. "Quickly," he murmured. "I won't look. And… there are infected drifting this way."

She protested again, but he didn't set her down.

It was beyond endurance. At last she yielded in a voice small with shame. "Then cover your ears."

He gave a helpless laugh. "I only have two hands." He hitched her a little higher in the crook of his arms.

"Then don't move," she said, cheeks aflame. There was a rustle; he felt her hands slide up and clap over his ears from behind. "And keep your eyes shut tight. If you peek, I won't forgive you!"