Chapter 2: Can she stay
But the mess hall was warm, the scent of stew and woodsmoke thick in the air, and the ache in her side had dulled to a persistent throb. She sat hunched over a chipped ceramic bowl, her fingers wrapped tight around a spoon, the metal cool against her skin. The first bite of stew hit her tongue like a revelation—rich, savory, real—and she nearly groaned. It had been days since she’d eaten anything that wasn’t scavenged from a can or half-rotten.
Maria sat across from her, arms crossed, her dark eyes tracking every movement. She hadn’t put the rifle down, but it rested against the bench beside her now, within easy reach. Tommy, the scarred man from the fence, leaned against the wall nearby, his arms folded, his expression unreadable. Neither spoke. The silence stretched, thick with unasked questions.
Maria watched Jess eat hungrily, the way a starving animal might—quick, desperate, as if the food could vanish at any moment. The spoon clinked against the bowl with every frantic scrape, her fingers trembling just slightly around the handle. A flicker of something passed over Maria’s face—annoyance? Pity? Jess couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. She just needed the warmth in her belly, the strength in her arms.
Maria exhaled sharply through her nose. "You’re not from around here."
Jess swallowed hard, the stew sticking in her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of grease on her skin. "No."
"Where *are* you from?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Jess’s fingers tightened around the spoon. She knew what Maria was really asking: *Are you a threat? Are you running from something?
Maria’s voice was low, her fingers tapping once against the tabletop. The question wasn’t gentle.
Jess wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the grease from the stew leaving a faint smear across her knuckles. "Used to be from a QZ," she said, her voice flat. "Quarantine Zone 12. Till they burned it down." The words came out like stones, heavy and unadorned. She didn’t look up, didn’t want to see the way Maria’s expression might shift—pity, suspicion, that familiar flicker of fear that always followed when people heard where she’d come from.
The mess hall fell quiet. Even the clatter of spoons from the far tables seemed to still. Tommy pushed off the wall, his scarred face tightening. "You’re saying you’re from *inside* the Zone?" His voice was rough, like gravel underfoot.
Jess finally looked up, meeting his gaze.
"My mum ran the whole damn place before it collapsed." The words tasted bitter on her tongue. "She was the one who kept the lights on when the power grids failed. Kept the food coming when the supply lines cut off. Then the raiders came, and she didn't back down fast enough." She flexed her fingers around the spoon, the metal biting into her palm. "I got out before the fires started."
Maria's expression didn't change, but her fingers stilled against the table. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that settled into bones. Tommy let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Jesus. You're telling me you're the daughter of *that* Mason?"
Jess's jaw tightened. "The one and only."
Maria exhaled sharply through her nose, her dark eyes searching Jess's face like she was looking for something specific.
"You're in no shape to leave," she said, her voice flat and final. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until that wound stops bleeding through every bandage we put on it."
Jess set the spoon down with a deliberate clink, her fingers curling into a fist against the chipped tabletop. "I didn't ask for a bed," she said, her voice low but steady. "I just need supplies. Bandages. Antibiotics. Whatever you can spare. Then I'm gone."
Maria leaned forward just slightly, her elbows resting on the table, her gaze never wavering. "You're not listening," she said, her voice dropping to a tone that carried the weight of a command. "I'm not offering you charity, kid. I'm offering you a place."
The words hung between them, sharp and unexpected. Jess felt her pulse quicken, her fingers twitching against the table.
*"Yes. Thank you."* The words came out quiet, rough-edged, like they’d been dragged up from somewhere deep inside her. She wasn’t sure she believed them yet—not the offer, not the place, not the way Maria’s voice had dropped into something almost gentle. Her eyes flicked to the rifle still resting against the bench, then back to Maria’s face, searching for the catch.
Maria didn’t smile, but something in her expression shifted—just slightly, like a door cracking open. "Good," she said, nodding once. Then, to Tommy: "Get her a cot in the infirmary. And tell Doc to check that wound again—properly this time." She pushed back from the table, the bench legs scraping against the floor. "You’ll work. Not for free. But not as a prisoner, either." Her gaze locked onto Jess’s, unyielding.