[Author's Note: I will be away for about a week, so I am posting two Zed chapters in a row this week and there will be no Zeds next week. Thank you for putting up with me uwu]

…

Peter and my father are standing in the goodshouse, talking animatedly with Charlie, the goods keeper. Charlie has his hands on his hips and I can tell they are politely arguing, my father nodding his head almost violently as they debated. They're probably talking about the amount of shit my father is allowed to take to the Y. Undoubtedly he's attempting to talk Charlie into extra rations for our farm.

I suppose you can't call our farm a farm anymore. I mean, we don't have any livestock. We lost our sheep and cows to the Zeds when my father got drunk and accidentally left them out. We didn't have the rest of the family to help him fly sober then.

I remember stumbling across my father's liquor stash one time. I was eight and reading the fancy labels made me feel grown-up, feeling the smooth glass and sloshing the half-empty bottles in my small pudgy hands. I took my first sip and felt the sweet scorching sting of alcohol down my throat. I took another sip. And another. I carefully put away the bottles of wine just as I had discovered them, neatly stowed beside a large silver flask, filled with something that sharply slapped my nostrils when I took a swig, and a room-temperature vodka bottle, unopened. They were in the cool basement, under my grandfather's box of war medals in the closet.

I also remember my father, discovering my intrusion, bursting into my room and cuffing me swiftly round the head before saying, "Never again, you little shit." I cried more out of confusion and humiliation than actual pain. He had never hit me before and he hasn't since.

Sherlock had heard me and all he did was hug me. He was barely six then, but he didn't ask any questions, just hugged me. My mother had appeared in the doorway, only to watch silently. None of us ever brought it up.

…

I approach Jonah. He's standing a bit apart from my father, holding a clipboard with tallies and numbers scratched on it. He must see the look on my face, still recovering from my talk with Meghan, so he says, worriedly, "Aeowyn? Everything all right?"

"Fine." I look away and focus on the great debate. "We should really be moving on. Those people need us."

He nods. "Fuckin' dickhole father of yours won't settle for what they've allotted us." His eyes dart right to me. "No 'ffense."

I smirk. "None taken."

"How's the little princess doing?"

I bite my lip. "Seems fine. I mean, Meghan wants to leave her here."

Jonah bobs his head slightly to the left. "Suppose that's the right thing. Mean, better medical treatments, regular food, roof over her head."

"We can't just leave her here! Abandoning her isn't right."

"It means more rations we have to share, less water for us all, less living space. Means a lot of things."

"Oh? That's not what you said when Sherlock died." I say it bitterly, and immediately I regret saying it, watching the small amount of happiness in his eyes extinguish.

He grits his teeth slowly, saying, "Little fucker can stay." He stalks away, squaring his shoulders.

I seem to be picking a lot of fights today. I sigh. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I be at least slightly pleasant to anyone? Not even my own family, the only people I have left in this world? I chew my lip until I taste blood, and I bite down, savoring the pain. At least I'm still alive.

…

When my father and Peter finally get their shit together, I approach them respectfully. The last thing I need is to piss off my father today. "Hey," Peter says, "news?"

"Nothing, really. When are we going?"

"Maybe twenty minutes," my father replies, busying himself with a clipboard similar to Jonah's.

I decide to ask as casually as I can manage. "So," I say, possibly too casually, "the girl?"

"Oh," my father says, a disappointing answer.

"I was hoping she could come home with us. Meghan and I can help her heal, and once she's up and about, it's an extra pair of working hands. She'll be thankful for the help and she might reward us." Half of that is 100% pure bullshit, but I figure anything I say will help.

He thinks for a second before replying, "What about our rations?"

Without thinking, I answer, "She'll get half of mine." My body is used to not eating anyway, and not due to lack of rations.

He nods curtly. "All right, Aeowyn. Go tell Meghan."

I am loath to say anything to Meghan again. "'Kay," I tell him, walking away, inwardly bubbling with my success. What if Meghan was right, and the angel was immune? I mean, her big cut wasn't infected or anything, and it seemed to have been almost healed. That could have been Meghan's nursing skills, but somehow…

I shake my thoughts out of my head. The day is already long.

…

"Aunt Meghan."

She turns and the lines in her face seem deep like the Grand Canyon. She's only thirty-five and strands of her hair are already white.

"Aeowyn."

"The angel—she's coming with us."

"Angel?"

"The girl." I shake my head slightly and rub my eyes, feeling my lack of sleep reverberate through my body. I suppress a yawn.

"Ah. I suppose your father has ordered this?" Meghan has her hands on her hips, ready for another fight, but I'm not in the mood.

"It's not like he's the leader or anything," I grumble tiredly as I sit down in one of the visitor's chairs beside the angel's bed. She smirks slightly at that, and I ask, attempting to make it seem like I had already forgotten our shouting match, "When do you think she's going to wake up?"

Her hands drop to her sides and she sighs, a sign I take to mean a mutual understanding: we're over it. "It could be anytime. Look at this." She lifts up the angel's shirt and where I expected to see a nasty gash, was soft, smooth skin. Dried blood covered her stomach and side, but there was no wound. My eyebrows furrow in confusion, and I ask, "Was she ever hurt?"

Meghan looks at me as if she couldn't believe my stupidity. "Yes. You were there. She was hurt, bad. But now? Nothing."

"Jesus," I breathe, still looking, like staring at it will force it to make sense. I look up at her, studying her intently. She herself is a mystery. "Just who are you?"

"What more like." Meghan says, and I wonder what further mysteries might lie behind her eyes.

…