The apartment was buzzing with tension the next morning. Despite the fact that their trade agreement with Cara had gone relatively smoothly—or at least without gunfire—the encounter with the armed group lingered in everyone's mind. Mallory, ever the reluctant heroine, sprawled on her couch, staring at the glowing ceiling panels that had evolved to mimic natural sunlight.
"This whole apocalypse thing was supposed to be low-maintenance," she muttered. "Now we've got zombie hordes, rival survivor factions, and Cara's drama to deal with. I didn't sign up for this."
"Technically, none of us signed up for this," Greg said, passing through the living room with a tray of snacks. "And yet, here we are."
Harper flopped into an armchair beside Mallory, munching on a handful of the popcorn Greg had just made. "I don't know about you, but I think we handled yesterday like pros. I mean, sure, we almost got shot, but nobody actually got shot. That's a win."
