"My room," Shannon said. "Smells like Sidhar."
"My room," Tristan answered. "Smells like Tara."
"And our living room smells like the hawk lives in it," they said together.
In their haste, they had forgotten to clean the shared cottage. Shannon's last roommate—his brother—had left a generous legacy: dust, laundry, and a smell that even the Red Fever couldn't kill. Since the outbreak, every free hour had gone to caring for others, not their own home.
Now that they were confined inside the cottage, the scents were impossible to ignore. With only vinegar, lye, and soap left in their storage, the two began scrubbing like soldiers on a mission.
The bedrooms, the kitchen, the dining space, the privy, and even the small bathhouse—nothing was spared.
Tristan attacked the walls with vinegar water while Shannon swept with the determination of a general clearing enemy lines.
