Five minutes into hiking through what Xenia could only describe as a mosquito rave inside a humidity coffin, the trees thinned just enough to reveal a cabin—old, mossy, and tucked away like the forest was trying to hide it from Yelp reviews and cannibals.
"There are people who live here," Rico said, sweat dripping down his neck. "A blind old lady and her granddaughter."
Xenia stopped at the edge of the clearing. "Okay but… are they alive-people or we-need-to-run-right-now-people?"
Rico looked at Anna. And Anna, usually the reigning queen of cold detachment, suddenly looked… hesitant.
"Irah is my cousin," she said quietly, the edge gone from her voice, replaced with something softer. "Her daughter died giving birth to Cecil. So it's just been the two of them. Irah's blind now. She weaves to survive. Cecil finds the materials—palm fibers, banana stalks, buri… sometimes even old curtains if she's desperate."
Rafe shifted his pack. "Then let's go meet the badass fiber-foraging duo."
The cabin's porch creaked under their steps. A girl—maybe fourteen, barefoot, arms full of vines—looked up mid-knot. Her grip tightened like she was prepping to smack them with a basket.
"Why are you here?" she asked. Suspicious, like they were about to steal her goat.
But then—recognition.
"Cecil… it's me," Anna said, and her voice turned into something none of them had ever heard before: warm. Like lullabies and Sunday afternoons and before-the-outbreak kind of warm.
The girl's whole body deflated. "Grandma! Anna's here!"
Xenia blinked. Okay but who hacked Anna's personality?
"And who are they?" Cecil asked, side-eying Xenia and Rafe like they might try to sell her essential oils.
"They're friends," Anna said. "People I trust."
Big words from a woman who once told Brie to shut up during a zombie ambush because "emotions are inefficient."
Inside, the cabin was dim and smelled like woven dreams and mothballs. An old woman sat cross-legged beside a loom, her fingers dancing across unfinished matwork. Her eyes were milky with blindness, but her head tilted toward the door like she could feel who had entered.
"Irah," Anna said, kneeling. "It's me."
A tremble passed through the old woman like wind through thin cloth. "My dear… is it really you?"
"Yes. We came because things have changed," Anna said gently. "Terribly changed."
Xenia stepped forward. Time to be the voice of apocalyptic reason.
"There's been an outbreak," she explained carefully. "People are turning. They lose themselves—body, mind, everything. They attack. They spread it through bites. We're building a refuge near the coast. We've got fencing, food, rotating patrols. And we want you to come."
Irah's fingers paused mid-weave. "I don't understand all of it," she said after a long silence. "But I understand danger. And the need to survive."
Cecil's brows furrowed. "Is it… like a sickness?"
"Yes," Xenia said. "A sickness that turns people into walking corpses with zero personal boundaries."
The room went still.
Then, gently, Irah spoke. "Cecil, fetch water from the well. Our guests might want to wash."
Cecil nodded and padded out, still cradling her bundle of vines like a tiny warrior-in-training.
As the door shut, Irah's voice cracked.
"I have prayed every morning," she said, barely above a whisper, "that someone would come for her. Someone kind. Someone who could protect her." Her hands trembled. "I'm old, Anna. I can't walk. I can't fight. I can't even see her face anymore. But I know my time is nearly done."
Anna reached out. "Don't say that."
"I must," Irah said, as a single tear slipped down her cheek. "That's why I'm asking you—take her. Let her live. Let her be."
Xenia swallowed hard. For a second, the buzzing in her brain—the constant background noise of to-do lists, contingency plans, water rotation schedules—just stopped.
"I promise," Anna said. Her voice didn't crack. But her eyes did.
Unnoticed, Cecil had returned. Bucket in hand, heartbreak on her face. She'd heard everything.
"I'll go," she whispered. "But only if Grandma comes too."
Everyone turned.
"I don't want to leave her here," Cecil said, voice wobbling. "Please."
Xenia gave a soft, exhausted smile. "We're not leaving anyone behind, kid. Especially not the blind weaving grandma with main character energy."
That was that.
Rafe—bless his mountain-sized back—volunteered to carry Irah with a woven sling that looked straight out of Pinterest: Apocalypse Edition. Anna packed their few belongings with military precision. Cecil zipped around the room like a mini-tornado, scooping up threads, dried herbs, a single oil lamp, and probably every emotionally significant object in the house.
Rico helped knot down their gear with the efficiency of someone who once tried to build a zipline out of extension cords.
By the time they headed back down the trail, the sky had turned tangerine. The forest smelled like wet leaves, sun-warmed bark, and maybe—just maybe—something like hope.
"We'll be sleeping outside tonight," Xenia announced, swatting a leaf out of her face. "Gabriel's house is booked. Unless anyone wants to cuddle up with boar meat in the pantry."
"I expected as much," Anna muttered, clutching Cecil's hand.
"We'll fix it," Xenia said. "Wild Man's hut goes up tomorrow. But after that?"
She held up her fingers, ticking off like a boss planning a Sim City rebuild.
"One house for Nestor. One for Tenorio. Marga wants one with a porch for sunbathing. Rafe needs one big enough for his guns and his hair products. I need a shack with emotional support walls. And now one for Irah and Cecil."
Rafe raised an eyebrow. "You're planning a village."
Xenia exhaled through her nose. "No. I'm planning a future."