Fireflies - or, their rank and file, at least - mostly avoid Joel. Technically, he's an honored guest. He gets free range of the first and second floors of the hospital, with their bunk rooms, common areas, mess hall, and improvised weight room. He hardly uses any of it, save for that one night after he met Anderson when he corners a heavy bag in the gym and works it over until his hands were raw and bleeding.

The mess hall isn't quite as easily avoided as the weight room, but, fortunately, the repurposed hospital cafeteria comes with plenty of tiny tables where one or two people can sit alone and contemplate their place in an unfeeling universe. When he has to eat, Joel keeps his head down toward his tray and wears a forbidding scowl, and that's mostly enough to keep the curious at bay.

Which is why it's such a surprise when, halfway through breakfast and two days since he last saw Ellie, a girl clangs her tray onto his table and drags up a chair. He looks up with an arched eyebrow, for the moment too startled to even try to look scary. She's a beanpole of a girl, with a square jaw and broad, blocky shoulders that suggest she might be powerful if she ever grows into that frame. For now, her lanky arms swing freely and tuck around her tray with the awkward grace of a half-grown foal. Her eyes are bright and curious.

"You're him. The smuggler."

He grunts. "And what are you? FEDRA customs?"

She flushes a bright red. "Sorry."

He snorts despite himself. "Don't be, girl. I'm just teasing." He studies her for a moment. She's younger than her height would suggest. Sixteen, at a stretch. Maybe younger. "The Fireflies recruiting from junior high, now?"

"What's junior high?"

He resists the odd urge to roll his eyes. "Trust me, you're better off not knowing." He shovels another bite of oatmeal into his mouth because he's here for one reason, and one reason only. "What're you doing here, girl?"

She's still a little pink around the ears, but she stuffs a bit of toast in her mouth and chews with an air of defiance. "Eating."

He gives her a look that strives for "withering," but probably lands closer to "patronizing." Her flush deepens, but she leans forward as if to share a secret.

"They say you came all the way from Boston. What was that like?"

"Cold," he says shortly.

She's undeterred, and for a moment, it's impossible not to compare the lively spark in her eyes to a certain other young girl Joel knows. "Is it true what they say? About the girl? They're saying she might be the cure."

"I wouldn't know anything about that. You'd have to take that up with this Anderson fellow."

She scowls down at her plate. "Yeah, I've tried." Her animus doesn't last long. After barely a second, she's looking back up at him, her eyes shining. "But, what's she like?"

"I'm not gonna talk about Ellie," Joel says firmly, "Not sure it's any of your business."

"Ellie," the girl echoes, "That's her name?"

Joel's hand tightens on his spoon. He swallows and narrows his eyes. "You people are already setting her up as some kind of messiah . . . and you don't even know her name?"

Her long-fingered hands freeze and her mouth falls open as if she almost knew what to say but stopped herself just in time. From off to the side, a young man's barking voice spares her from answering. "Hey! Private Anderson! You're late for PT. Might want to make an appearance if it's not too much trouble."

She stuffs the rest of her toast in her mouth in one bite. "Yeah, Matthias," she calls back, "Be right there."

She pushes to her feet, but pauses when Joel snorts softly. "Anderson, huh?"

She seems to realize all at once that she's been rude. She wipes a jam-smudged hand on her pant leg, then offers it for Joel to shake. "Abby."

He shakes her hand and finds her grip sticky, but firmer than he'd expected. He can't help but smile a little. "Joel."

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Climbing the stairs to Ellie's floor the next morning, Joel is taken aback at the sound of laughter. Specifically, the distinctive laughter of teenage girls. Plural. He strides down the hallway, nodding to the two guards and finds something more akin to a slumber party than a research project at the end of it. Ellie is sitting, cross-legged, by the floor-to-ceiling window and holding her newest comic plastered flat against the glass. On the other side, squatting on her heels and leaning close to read, is a grinning Abby Anderson.

"C'mon, you've gotta admit, that's cool," Ellie is saying.

"I'm pretty sure faster-than-light travel doesn't work like that," Abby says through a smile.

"Oh, come on, like you're an expert on the space-time continuum!"

"I dunno, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve that much glowy light."

"Well, excuse them for making it visually interesting!"

"I'm just saying, if you like stories about space, I can hook you up. Asimov. Frank Herbert. Ursula Le Guin. The classics."

"Maybe once I'm desperate. Check back with me in like a week."

Joel clears his throat. "Good to see you two gettin' along."

Abby springs to her feet, her face flushing as if she's been caught committing a crime. "Sorry, Mr. Miller."

"What for?"

She ducks her head. "I should go."

"Hey," Ellie calls after her, "Bring those snobby books next time! I wanna tell you how wrong you are!"

Abby waves a hand in acknowledgement but doesn't turn. Joel waits patiently while the guards enter the access code and wave him into the clean room. "I see you're making new friends," he says as he steps into the room.

Ellie shrugs without getting up. "She's Dr. Anderson's daughter."

"Yeah, I figured. She's a friendly sort."

In the midst of pushing herself to her feet, Ellie pauses and winces. Joel is at her side in a moment. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she pants, hauling herself up. Unfortunately for her ruse, her tank hikes up slightly, revealing the bandage over her left hip.

Joel steadies her and lays a hand gently on her waist, just above the white adhesive. "What's this?"

She grunts and quirks a rueful smile After a moment, she pulls the shirt slightly up, revealing white adhesive with a red stain at the center. "Bone marrow biopsy." Before she can shrug away, Joel catches her right hand and turns it over, revealing a small but angry wound closed with a couple of dark blue sutures on her forearm, right at the edge of the bite scar. "Okay. And a skin biopsy. It's not a big deal."

"Ellie, we talked about this."

"And, I told you, I've got it under control! These are minor procedures. Stop flipping out."

"They're taking bits of you!"

"Well, I've got plenty to spare! It's not like I'm running out of blood any time soon!"

Any response dies in his throat. He's hit, for what feels like the millionth time, with the decades-old memory of hot blood spilling between his fingers, with the sound of a girl's pained cry. First time he'd ever seen that much blood. He hadn't known a person could hold so much, especially not one so small . . .

The irritation slips from Ellie's face as she sees . . . whatever it is that's flashing against his. Her shoulders slump. "I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't mean to yell, okay?"

Joel nods sharply. To give himself a break from looking at her, he steps to the other side of the bed and examines a half dozen sheets of paper tacked to the wall. They turn out to be pencil sketches, all done on plain white printer paper. There's a few little doodles and what he assumes are practice runs - sketchy affairs crossed with lines to get the proportions right. There are some finished works too, though. A sparrow with its feathers intricately shaded. A pinto horse like the one she'd stolen from Tommy. A vista of crumbling skyscrapers, vaguely reminiscent of Boston. Joel pauses before the last sketch - a giraffe reaching for a leafy branch with outstretched lips.

"These are real good."

She comes up beside him, smiling tentatively. "That's quite the tone of surprise."

"I . . . no, I just mean . . . I didn't know you drew."

"Not a lot of time for it on the road. What with the trying-to-not-die and all." She runs a thumb over the lower edge of the nearest sketch. "I had this teacher back in Boston. Most of them were shit . . . well, all of them were shit at teaching the curriculum, but there was this one who liked to draw. She taught, like, history or something, but if you were passing her class, she'd let you stay after and she'd teach you some art stuff."

"So, I guess you were pretty good at history."

"Got decent at it, yeah. Never had, like, paints or colored pencils or anything, but you use what you can get."

Joel thinks of those giant boxes of crayons they used to have. Sixty-four colors to a box, with names like "Banana Mania" and "Jazzberry Jam." Always breaking. Always spilling all over the floor. Getting lost in the back of his truck and he'd find them months later, melted and congealed into hard wax puddles. God, he used to hate that. "I'll try and get you some," he tells Ellie, "Art supplies, I mean. Gotta be some still around."

She pauses a moment. "That'd be cool," she says, still in that cautious tone, like she's not sure if he's okay, "God knows I need something to do in here. I'm climbing the walls. Abby thinks I should read Great Expectations."

He winces at the less-painful memory of his own school days. "Do yourself a favor. Don't."

She laughs and it sounds almost natural. "That bad, huh?" She hesitates, then pulls the giraffe picture off the wall. "Here, you should keep this one. Don't look at me like that! I messed up the legs. I want to try again."

He takes the paper and gently folds it, without creasing it. "That's . . . thanks. I mean . . . thank you."

"Any time. Plenty more where that one came from." She sprawls on the bed again, flipping open the comic she'd been showing Abby. "Now. Let's talk about this cliffhanger."

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When Marlene summons Joel to her office, he knows the time for stalling is over. He's gonna have to have this fight. He intentionally leaves his gear and his jacket in his quarters. He arrives casually dressed in just his jeans and a dark tee-shirt. Sneakers, even. Not boots.

They've set her up in a converted exam room, the table pushed aside to make room for a desk. She waves him in with a sort of weary triumph on her face.

"I got your guns," she says without preamble, "It wasn't easy, but what we scrounged together beats the hell out of what Robert owed you. Nine millimeters, forty cals, even a couple of AKs thrown in."

Joel folds his arms and leans against a dusty cabinet. "Thanks. I don't want 'em."

She stares at him for a moment, trying to look surprised. "Do you know what I had to promise to get these guns? And you don't want 'em."

He keeps his face very even. "What the hell would I do with a crate full of AK-47s out here? All my contacts were back in Boston, an' I've got no way of transporting that much cargo."

"Survivor like you? Something tells me you could find something to do with them."

"Maybe." He shrugs. "But, I'm not leaving Salt Lake City. And as far as I can tell, you Fireflies are the only gang in town not sprouting fungus. Ain't like I can sell 'em back to you."

Her lips press tight together. She was expecting this fight, too. "That wasn't the deal, Joel."

"No, the deal was me and Tess escorting a girl a couple miles outside the QZ. Maybe six hours there and back. The deal didn't involve Tess bleeding out in the Capitol lobby, and it sure as hell didn't involve the shit we've gone through in the eight months since. I think it's time for a new fucking deal."

She swallows. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

He only grunts.

She presses her hands to the dented metal of her desk and drops her head. Sighs. "What do you want, Joel?"

He clenches his jaw. "Ellie needs someone to watch out for her. And it looks like the position is open." She picks up her head and glares, but he cuts her off. "That's my price. You make me Ellie's guardian. I want to see her every day, not just when you feel like throwing me a bone. And you tell Anderson that if he wants to poke her full of holes, he comes to me first. He explains himself and gets my permission."

"Come on, Joel . . ."

"No. You know Ellie. You know she'll do just about any damn thing you tell her to if it's for this cure business. And I am not lettin' her break herself just so y'all can feel like you're looking for the light."

"Do you even give a shit about what we're trying to do here?"

"Do you even give a shit about that little girl?"

"I can't . . . even if I wanted to give you that kind of control, I can't. I don't even have that kind of power."

That's not what Joel wanted to hear. He draws a slow breath. "Anderson said . . ."

"Anderson commands this facility! I mean, he doesn't do the logistics or the administrative shit, but he's head honcho, top of the food chain! It's all a courtesy. He tells me which tests he wants to run. He asks me for consent, since I knew Ellie's mom." Joel can hear the air quotes in her voice. "He's the last one who can make a cure, and this is the best shot we've had in two decades. If there's a test he wants run and I say no, he will cut me out."

"And you're just okay with this?"

"Yes, because Anderson is not the fucking bad guy here! Why can't you get that through your head?" She pauses, not looking at him. Her voice softens. "Look, I get it. I had to survive out there for a while. Before I found the Fireflies. It gets to where you can barely see past your own nose. Only thing on your mind is the next day, the next meal, the next fight. You rely on the person next to you so much they become your whole world. But, you are not out there anymore. In here, we're trying to build something."

"Aw, spare me the recruitment bullshit! I'm not Tommy."

"Then let's talk a language you understand." Her voice hardens. "Let's make a deal. I can give you the visitation. God knows she needs something to take her mind off things. And I can loop you in on the research plans. I'm pretty sure I can get Dr. Anderson to explain most of it to you. But, I can't give you decision making power. It's not going to fucking happen."

Joel forces himself to breathe slowly through his nose. He knows this is about the best he's gonna get. "I want to be there. For every procedure. He wants to take a fucking cheek swab, I'll be standing there with a glass of water and a goddamn lollypop."

"I'll talk to him about it. I'm sure we can work something out within reason." She straightens. "But, we're gonna need something from you."

"And what might that be?"

"Loyalty."

He has a feeling he's not going to like what that entails. He's right.

tbc