Survivor by James Phelan Page A

saw,” I said. “You never know though, right? Someone may have locked themselves away in their apartment or office, waiting it out, waiting for help or death, whichever came first.”
    â€œThat’s what I’ve assumed is going on out there,” she said. “I just assumed—I thought you would have seen lots of others.”
    â€œIt’s . . . it’s just me. Do you have family here in Manhattan?” I asked quietly, over the steam of the soup.
    â€œNo,” she replied. “Most of my family’s in southern California. I’ve been here for three and a half months. I live by myself in Williamsburg—that’s just across the East River.”
    I crunched my cracker and sipped my soup.
    â€œI couldn’t feed them,” she said suddenly.
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œThe polar bears. I didn’t have enough for them and everyone else . . . I had to let them out.”
    I felt as though she thought I was judging her, her work, her decisions.
    â€œThey’ll be okay,” I said. “It’s winter—they can stick to the snow and head north, head home . . .”
    â€œI actually envy them that,” Rachel said.
    â€œTheir strength?”
    â€œIn a way, yeah: to be strong enough, equipped with the innate ability to get out there in this harsh environment and find a way home. Hundreds or thousands of years of our species being soft and lazy makes it difficult for us to do much of anything out there.”
    The weather rattled against the curtained window. It was good to eat with company, but eating seemed like a chore to Rachel, like she forced herself to have something to keep her energy up—if she faltered, if she failed, all the animals would suffer her fate. She sat cross-legged, her empty cup in her hands, watching the wood burn.
    â€œYou happy to sleep there?” she said, pointing to the stack of blankets I sat on.
    â€œSure,” I said. I made a bed of them, switched off my flashlight, climbed in and took off my damp clothes. She hung my jeans and shirt over a chair by the hearth, taking care as she did so and not saying a word. “Thanks.”
    She knelt by the fire, poking at the coals, put a big thick log on and went to her own bed. The lamp went out and I watched the flickering of the orange light from the flames and the shadows they cast on the ceiling. I was warm and cozy in this little room, more so than at any moment I could remember.
    â€œI can stay and help you, if you like?” I said. Rachel was silent, but I knew she was awake and had heard me. “Or . . . if I find Felicity, and we, I mean, if you want to, maybe we can all try to escape Manhattan . . .”
    I knew my words were pointless, knew that nothing I could say would persuade this girl to leave her animals alone and defenseless. I’m sure some part of her wanted to be at home, but how could she leave? What would it take?
    The silence between us lasted until I was drifting off. I’d thought she was asleep, but when my new friend spoke her voice was clear and alert and showed that she felt and thought more about the situation than I’d allowed.
    â€œIt won’t make much difference what we do,” she said. “None of it makes much difference. We’re stuck here, stuck with what we’ve got.”

11
    T he morning was bright and my eyelids were heavy. I rolled from my side to my back and stared up at the ceiling. For a moment I forgot where I was. I’d slept well, by far the best sleep I’d had these past thirteen days.
    It was a quarter-past nine. I stretched out, my back aching from this too-short makeshift bed. Just a few more minutes of sleep. I let myself doze, then sat up with a start, feeling sick. Twenty-past nine! I jumped up. I had to get to Rockefeller Plaza, to be there on time in case Felicity showed.
    All my clothes felt dry as I pulled them on and Rachel had laid out a clean T-shirt and hooded jumper