It is an unspoken understanding that Shauna is off-limits. She’s put a distance between herself and the rest of you, and the others seem more than willing to respect it. After all, she’s doing her part, helping with chores, contributing to the desperate attempts to keep some semblance of order.

Losing Jackie was only the start; she’s lost so much since (the baby was the last thread of hope), and though no one says it, everyone gets it. Shauna is angry: angry at the wilderness, at what it’s taken from her, at the pieces of herself she’s had to bury alongside what she’s lost. It keeps most of the girls at arm’s length, a boundary they don’t dare cross. As long as Shauna is carrying her weight, who would step in?

She’s clearly hurting, but she gets things done, so they’re content to give her space. You’ve tried to do the same, tried to let her have this time without pushing her too hard, and yet you can’t ignore the signs of the things she’s struggling to keep buried, from the tension in her shoulders to the wild, panicked look that crosses her face when she jolts awake at night, glancing around as though she’s not sure where she is.

It’s those looks that pull you in now, watching her from across the dark cabin as she shoots up, staring blankly into the shadows. She’s alone again, and you know that the moment you move closer, you’re crossing a line; inviting yourself into the space she’s carved out for herself. You expect Shauna to push you away the moment you approach, but when you kneel down beside her, she lets you stay, staring into the nothingness straight ahead.

Then she speaks, her voice little more than a rough whisper. “I’m fine,” Shauna mutters, and though the words come out stiff, you don’t miss how her body relaxes.