In And Out -Libby
Thirty Six
Two days had passed since the bridge, since Finn was shot.
I stood in the doorway of the exam room, watching his chest rise and fall in an even, unforced rhythm. His color had returned, a shade closer to normal, but he remained unconscious.
“Libby,” Fiona said from behind me, her voice a careful balance of competence and exhaustion.
I turned to meet her gaze. She looked tired from sustaining the impossible for too long, but not panicked—not yet.
“He is healing,” she offered, the thought almost a vulgar kindness in this place. “No fever. No swelling. No red flags.”
“You’re sure?” I asked, my own voice thin.
“As sure as I can be in a veterinary clinic with no real human medical equipment,” she replied with a dry half-smile.
A laugh hitched in my throat but died there, the moment more relief than humor.
She checked Finn’s IV; fluids dripped steadily, antibiotics doing their work. Time, a scarce currency, was the only thing we couldn’t counterfeit.
A loud purr cut through the quiet, and I looked down to see Doc Fluffbutt, the orange cat who had adopted Lily, stretched across her lap as if the world outside didn’t exist.
“His name is amazing,” Lily insisted, stroking the cat with tremulous care.
A weary grin touched Fiona’s mouth as she shook her head. “That vet had a sense of humor.”
“Or a problem,” I offered, watching the cat blink up at me as if judging us all.
Doc Fluffbutt let out a rumbling purr that sounded almost smug, and I found myself smiling despite everything. Lily deserved a small mercy, a tiny anchor to cling to.
“Food,” Fiona said after a moment, as if we’d circled back to the obvious. “We’re going to need more.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“We’ll be here at least a week,” she added, delivering the blunt calculation with the clinical certainty she’d honed under fire. “Maybe more if he doesn’t wake up soon.”
My gaze shifted back to Finn, the steady rise of his chest stubborn proof of life. A week felt impossibly long, but it was the math we had to live with.
“Okay,” I said, inching toward practical steps. “Then I’ll go find food.”
“By yourself?” Lily cried.
“We don’t have many options. Fiona’s with Finn, and you’re absolutely not going. That leaves me. End of story,” I said, laying out the logic. “There’s a store two doors down, probably picked over, but maybe not empty.”
Close is good. Close is safer, if only for a time.
“Mom, it’s risky,” Lily countered.
“Everything is risky,” Fiona shot back, with no anger, only an acknowledgment of the brutal probabilities we faced.
I stepped away from the door, pacing the room in measured strides, the plan already forming in my head even as I spoke it aloud.
“I should go check it out,” I admitted. “I don’t want to leave you guys alone too long.”
Fiona nodded. “We’ll be okay. But if you see any of them, you book it back here, Libby. Seriously. We can starve for a few days if it means we’re all safe.”
Lily looked up from Doc Fluffbutt, the cat’s quiet presence a fragile thread anchoring her.
“Are we going?” she asked.
“Not we. Me,” I said. “I just need a plan first.”
Doc Fluffbutt chose that moment to yawn—wide, slow, and completely unbothered.
“Wow,” I muttered under my breath. “Must be nice.”
“He’s conserving energy,” Lily offered softly. “For emotional support.”
“Right. The tactical support cat. An essential role.”
Lily laughed, then immediately covered her mouth; the sound muffled but real.
“It’s okay,” I said, softer now. “We need that. The humor. The normal.”
I caught Fiona’s eye. She gave a small nod, and I gave one back.
“I’ll check the store,” I said. “Just a quick sweep. See what we’re dealing with.”
Fiona stood straighter. For a second, I saw the impulse in her eyes—the urge to take control, to go herself. But she just squared her shoulders. “If you’re not back in twenty minutes, I’m locking the doors.”
It wasn’t a threat, but a statement of grim necessity. “I’ll be back.”
“See that you are,” she said, her voice tight. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
The cat regarded us with a calm, unmoved expression, as if this were just another day in his life’s long service to humans in peril.
I checked the gun again.
Loaded.
The grip had worn smooth in someone else’s hand, not mine. At the range, I’d always rushed the trigger, chasing the noise, the kick, the neat hole appearing in the paper. I’d never once thought about what came after the shot.
Still, better to have it.
I took a slow breath and slipped out the back door of the clinic, easing it shut behind me until the latch clicked soft as a whisper.
I didn’t move right away.
I stood there, back against the wall, letting my ears do the work first.
Wind moved through the alley. Leaves scraped across the pavement. Somewhere far off, a loose sign swung on its hinges, creaking with a slow, metallic squeak.
Other than the thing I’d glimpsed the first night, nothing moved.
You’re fine, I told myself. You’re fine. Keep moving.
I pushed off the wall.
Down the alley I went, keeping close to the brick, each step placed with care—heel to toe, quiet, deliberate. My eyes swept constantly: corners, doorways, the dark gaps between buildings where anything could stand still, and I wouldn’t know until it was already too late.
Nothing.
Just me and the wind and that distant, lonely creaking.
Okay. Okay.
The back of the store came into view. Small. Local. The hand-painted sign above the entrance had probably once felt charming—the kind of place you stopped at on a road trip for overpriced coffee and a bag of chips, just to stretch your legs. The door sat slightly recessed, sheltered, ordinary.
I reached it and stopped.
Listened.
Then I tested the handle.
It turned.
The relief hit so fast my legs almost buckled. “Thank you,” I whispered, to no one, to whoever had simply forgotten to lock it on the way out.
I pushed it open just enough to slip through, and it gave a short, sharp squeak that cut through the silence.
I froze.
Waited.
Counted to ten with bated breath.
Nothing. No shuffling of feet. No low, horrible sound from somewhere deeper inside.
I slipped in and pulled the door shut behind me.
The back room stretched out in the dim gray light filtering through from the store beyond—shelves along every wall, stacked with boxes, storage, supplies that hadn’t been touched yet. Untouched. The sight of it sent something warm moving through my chest.
Nobody got here first. Nobody cleared this out.
I moved fast.
Flashlight. Batteries. Straight into the bag without ceremony, my hands already reaching for the next thing before the first hit the bottom.
Chips. Sealed goods. Whatever looked dense and caloric and easy to carry. Three cans of peaches into the bag, followed by beans—two cans, then a third.
Living the dream.
My hands trembled slightly, not from cold, and I kept moving because to stop was to think, and thinking right now meant picturing the four faces back at the clinic and what would happen if I came back empty-handed.
Don’t.
In and out.
But the back room had limits. I zipped the backpack halfway and straightened up, taking stock. Enough for a few days, maybe. Not enough for a week. Not for four people who needed to get strong again.
My gaze fixed on the doorway leading into the main store.
Dark beyond it. Quiet.
That’s where the real supplies are. Proper food. Medicine, maybe. Everything the back room couldn’t offer.
And that’s where something could be waiting.
I stood at the threshold. Gun in one hand, flashlight in the other, thumb hovering over the switch.
I thought about turning back. I thought about Finn.
About Lily and Fiona. The beans and peaches that wouldn’t last three days between four people.
The whole walk over here, I told myself I’d do whatever it took.
So do it then.
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
“Okay, Libby,” I whispered into the dark, the sound swallowed by the silence. “Just one look. That’s all.”
I clicked on the flashlight.
Pushed the door open.
And stepped into the store.