Page 45 of What Remains

For a full minute she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Only one word throbbed through her mind: No.

She finally forced her legs to move, shaky and numb. She crossed the room, knelt beside him, and touched his cheek with trembling fingers. Cold skin. Already stiffening. She pressed her forehead to his, choking on a sob she tried—and failed—to swallow.

"Mark... baby, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry⁠—"

But nothing answered her. Not even the echo of him remained in the room.

She saw it all vanishing—every plan they'd made, every ordinary morning, the future they were supposed to have. Then, a different image surfaced: Layla's face, waiting downstairs. That was the only future that mattered now. Josie wiped her face on her sleeve, forced her breath steady, and got to work.

She stripped the sheet from the bed and wrapped Mark gently, folding it around him as she used to swaddle Layla—tenderly, carefully, as if it still mattered. Her hands shook, fumbling every knot, but she refused to fall apart again. Not yet. She couldn't afford it.

It took everything she had to move him to the balcony. His body was heavy now, unresponsive, a weight of finality she wasn't ready to accept. But she forced herself through it, step by agonizing step, until he lay outside, covered and still beneath the pale morning light.

She shut the balcony door, turned the lock, and pulled the curtains closed.

That nearly destroyed her.

She leaned her forehead against the glass, shoulders shaking silently. Closing him out felt like a betrayal; leaving him inside was impossible. She whispered a final, hoarse apology to the man she loved, then turned away before her knees could give out.

There would be no time to mourn. Not properly.

Her phone had died sometime in the night—dead screen, no signal. The Wi-Fi was out. The emergency broadcast loop had vanished. The neighborhood sat eerily quiet outside every window.

She was completely, terrifyingly alone.

And Layla still waited.

Josie wiped the last tears with her sleeve and moved through the house with mechanical precision, letting survival instinct override grief. She filled every bathtub, every pot, every bowl, every vase she could find—anything that might hold water. Jugs, pitchers, leftover milk cartons. Water sloshed across counters and tile, and she didn't stop.

When that was finished, she pulled the medical-grade disinfectant from the basement emergency kit and scrubbed herself raw—arms, neck, face, under her nails—until her skin burned and her eyes stung. She whispered a frantic prayer that it would prove enough to keep Layla safe from whatever horror had taken Mark so fast.

Only when the sting of disinfectant faded did the next crushing fear settle in:

What if it wasn't enough?

But she couldn't break now. So she took one last steadying breath, arranged her face into something calm—something resembling a mother with everything under control—and stepped toward the stairs.

She would protect Layla.

She would survive this.

She would not fail her daughter the way the world had failed everyone else.

With her heart splintered and her hands still trembling, Josie descended into the basement to face her new reality.

Josie woke with a strangled scream.

"Mark—MARK!"

Her body jolted upright, hands clawing at the air, searching for someone who wasn't there and hadn't been for a long time.

Seth reacted instantly, catching her forearm—not hard, but firm enough to anchor her back to the present.

"Josie, hey, hey …you're safe," he said, his voice low and steady. "It's just a dream. You're here. You're okay."

Her chest rose and fell in ragged gasps as she pressed her palms hard against her eyes, willing herself not to fall apart in front of him.