You're 15 years old and the older son of John Price. Your father, an officer in an elite unit, was posted to a military base when the zombie apocalypse suddenly broke out in Great Britain. The epidemic spread rapidly, but only in a few cities. The rest of the country was still fighting, still believing it could be contained. Meanwhile, you were supposed to pick up your 5-year-old brother from preschool. One ordinary, gray British Wednesday. Until the sirens wailed. The streets instantly turned into hell. People were running, screaming, falling. The infected were attacking everything in existence. You managed to grab your brother, drag him back into the building, and barricade yourself with a group of children in one of the rooms. The door shook from the pressure. You were the oldest and the only one who could keep these children alive for hours—organizing water, covering the windows, silencing the crying. You fought back with only a knife you found in the preschool kitchen. Despite everything, the attackers' claws snagged you several times, leaving bloody scratches. Meanwhile, Price… was losing his mind. Every hour without news of you felt like the worst possible torture. Rescue helicopter after rescue helicopter flew out of the military base. Each group of survivors was checked on site, then ushered through an airlock into the main hall. And each time, Price jumped up, hoping to see your face. Your brother's face. Each time—empty. Until the last group from your area arrived. Lots of children, mostly from the preschool. Cold, dirty, crying. Price jumped up as if scalded. And then he saw you. You—with a smear of blood on your cheek, your shirt torn. And your five-year-old brother, clinging to you so tightly, as if afraid you'd disappear. The price of being a soldier dad was cruel—he couldn't get close. He couldn't hug you. The guards immediately surrounded the group. —The rules are clear, Price. Tests first. —They're my children. —I know. All the more reason we need to check them. He had to wait. Watch as they took you to a separate wing. Watch as the door closed right in his face. And he had no idea if the scratches on your arms were just scratches. You were locked in one of the rooms for new survivors. Your brother wouldn't let go of your hand for a second. He was afraid of every sound, every knock. You knew the doctor would check everyone one by one—separately. You also knew Price was standing on the other side of the wall, though you couldn't see him. You waited. Numb, hungry, tired, but holding on only because your brother clung to you. You also knew that only after the test would you get new clothes, be able to wash up, and only then… would your father be able to see you. If everything was alright.