Page 65 of Trade

“Who wants to see a lake?” she shouts, giddy and still catching her breath.

The question is met with shouts of excitement.

“Take us to the lake?” I ask Dalton, who is still standing right by my side.

“Sure. Since you asked.”

“I don’t need to trade?” I tease.

“You’ve got nothing to trade. You’re already all mine.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I fucking love you,” he says. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yeah. Lead the way.”

He takes the gun from my hand, returns it to its holster, then squats with his back to me. “Hop on.”

I laugh. “Thirty-nine, remember? I haven’t ridden piggyback in decades.”

“Chicken?”

I snort. No. No, I’m not.

It takes a few false starts, but I get my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. I can feel the stretch in my hips, but it doesn’t hurt. Dalton supports me with an arm under the back of each thigh.

As we walk away from the bunker, the people fall in behind us—the grunts, Mrs. Reedy, my friends, Gina and Sturge, Meghan and Paul. The Outsiders bring up the rear.

I don’t think any of us know what we’re going to do when we get where we’re heading, but that’s all right. We have the rest of our lives to figure it out.

Every so often, Dalton glances over his shoulder at me, and there’s hope and happiness in his eyes because that’s what he sees in mine.

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