The Immune

33. The Meeting

The weeks pass uneventfully.

To my surprise, the people of Compound 4 are exceptionally good at pretending nothing has changed. Is it because of fear? Or just ignorance? Either way, they go to work every morning, wear the same uniforms they always have, and live with their usual disapproving frowns. Occasionally, I'll see someone from a different compound checking in a shipment, but they don't have a clue what's happened. How could they? The surface is exactly the same.

It's the world below the surface that changes. I walk back and forth to work alone every day and survey the minute differences. People laugh on the sidewalks. They take an extra minute to say goodbye to one another, and the young people sneak rushed kisses on the way to school and work. Mothers take the time to slick down their sons' hair with wet cloths.

Everything seems a little bit brighter than before— friendlier and more loving.

The work in the field proves to be as hard as I expected. Since it's winter, we tear up the fall crops and retill the cold, frozen ground. Only the potatoes and lettuce remain, and we weed those every day without fail. I rotate between jobs so that the planting, bending, and squatting doesn't kill my back. Yet, bent under the warm sun, nose red from the cold, focusing on the work becomes natural. I'm easily able to forget everything else.

At night, though, I don't have an escape. The guilt comes rushing back to me the moment I lay down to sleep, and I'm haunted by the idea that Isaac will never come back. Luckily, Dad stays glued to my side. He holds me as I cry and tells me to get it all out of my system.

"It will stop," he whispers to me one night as he pushes hair out of my face. "This depression will end. I promise."

Some nights, though, as we're sitting on the carpet, his arm around my shoulder, staring out at the stars, silent and sleepy, I wonder if he wants that more than I do.

One unusually warm day, Howard joins me in the fields.

"Howie," I say breathlessly, taking in the older man's haggard appearance. "What are you doing here?"

He pulls me in for a hug. "I asked for a job transfer. Just didn't feel right working on The Wall without you. Plus, I did always want to be a gardener."

"But you were imprisoned." I pull back and look up at him. "Hartley locked you away."

"Ollie let me out weeks ago. The day after your execution."

My mouth opens and closes as I search for something to say. Nothing seems to capture the emotion just right. I'm sorry for getting you thrown in prison? I'm sorry the guard beat you senseless and I left you down there? I'm sorry that I'm the root of all your problems?

Howard laughs, and I look at him in confusion.

"Whatever you're thinking, it's alright," he says, smiling. "You haven't done anything wrong in my book. You're alive, and that's all I care about."

I wrap my arms around him once more, burying my face in his jacket. He's warm and familiar, like Dad, and hugging him feels like home.

"I'm glad you're here." I swallow back tears and pull away. His smile never wavers.

Without another word, we go back to work. Everyday he meets me there, hoe in hand. Sometimes I'll look up from planting and find him glancing my way. Our eyes always meet, he always winks at me, and a silent understanding passes between us— we find comfort in each other's presence. Howard never wanders far from me. Even our breaks sync together.

"Hey," I say one day, leaning dangerously on a shovel. "Wanna hear a joke?"

Looking up, Howard pushes his glasses back up on his nose. A half-smile plays at his lips. He nods.