Later I learn Silas was the one driving when I ran into the highway. Surya is the former singer who drives now, and Fran is the kid.
"What do we call you?" Bronte says; to his chagrin, sitting beside me.
"Did you choose a name yet?" asks Silas from the front seat, and I nod. "We did too, except Fran," her voice trembles. I still hesitate to tell them. All eyes on me are not the most encouraging.
"So," says the man, arms crossed. "Are you mute, foreign, illiterate, or just too proud?"
"Bronte!" chides Silas, horrified. "Don't be rude!"
I respond merely out of spite. "I just didn't have much to say."
"So neither mute nor illiterate." Bronte puts effort into being cold.
"Eden," I say, at last.
"Not proud, either." He leans against the window and closes his eyes.
"Well, Eden," says Silas. Her voice makes it sound like the place; I wonder how it feels in Bronte's voice. "Welcome to the crew, at least until you're better. We're not the type to leave you there to die— unlike some people." Bronte shows no sign of listening. "And— really, I'm really really sorry, I've gotten used to clear streets, I wasn't paying attention, I'm so sorry."
"It's alright," I tell her. Not many would've stopped to make sure I was human. "Thank you for being decent."
Surya sighs, a low silky sound. "Hard to find nowadays."
YOU ARE READING
In Case of Emergency
Short StoryA hundred miles. Five survivors. One bullet. Taken in by the same group of survivors who ran him over, Eden forms an unlikely bond with Bronte, a man with only one bullet left in his gun.
