Letting out a slow breath, I twirled the end of my hair around my finger, glasses resting low on my nose as the houses rolled past outside the window.
Places where people used to live. Where kids rode bikes down the street. Where someone kicked a ball too hard and it bounced off a fence. Where dinner smells drifted through open windows.
Now the windows were shattered. Curtains rotting. Lawns overgrown.
Or worse.
A small figure shuffled along the pavement as we drove past.
My stomach tightened.
A child. Not alive.
You didn't see many of them. Most never made it this long. When you did, you didn't have to guess the story. Bitten and escaped before they fully turned. Or starved hiding somewhere too long, waiting for someone who never came back.
I blinked hard.
I will not cry.
I leaned my elbow against the window, resting my head into my palm.
