TAINTED YOUTH.
020   tried and failed
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People were dying. Death was inevitable in the apocalypse—hell, it was inevitable in everyday life. But this felt different. It was fast, relentless, invisible. Graves were being dug too quickly, too many. There weren't enough shovels or hands to keep up. And there wasn't enough medicine to help the number of people now showing symptoms. They were running out of time.

Hallie was in her own head as she walked beside Lee down the corridor toward the library. Another meeting. Another hour of hard choices. The weight of it pressed against her ribs. She was so deep in thought, she almost didn't notice when Lee paused, leaned a shoulder heavily into the wall. His breathing was shallow. His skin—clammy and pale, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead.

"Lee?" Hallie's voice broke through the silence, low and cautious, her head tilting slightly.

He waved her off, trying for casual. But the act crumbled quickly. He coughed—sharp, ragged. The sound cut through the hallway like a knife. His knees buckled, and Hallie moved without thinking, catching his elbow just before he hit the ground.

"Don't—" he tried to protest, pushing her weakly, "you'll get sick..."

But his voice faded. He couldn't finish the sentence.

Hallie didn't let go. "You're burning up," she muttered, not really to him, more to herself. Her grip tightened around his arm, guiding him forward with a quiet urgency. Death Row was filling up. Beds were scarce, space was tighter every hour. But Lee was going to get one—she wouldn't let him be left in the halls.

She got him there, helped him ease down onto the cot, her hands steady despite the storm inside her. He slumped back, his head lolling to the side, breath uneven.

"I'm gonna find Dr. S," she said, already turning to go. Her voice was firm—no space for argument.

"Hallie?" A voice echoed from one of the cells. Low, rough.

She turned, brow furrowing. "Roman?" she called, moving toward the bars. "You're sick?"

He nodded once, eyes heavy, shoulders slack. "Yeah, but you aren't—why are you in here?" Concern laced his voice, but it felt off, a little too sharp beneath the surface.

She looked away. "Lee's got it," she admitted softly. "I brought him down."

Roman raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching like he might scoff. "Does Maggie and Beth know?"

"No... I was tryin' to find Dr. S, then I'd go tell them," she murmured.

Roman shifted on his cot, jaw tense. "Doc's got it. He won't be much help."

That made Hallie pause mid-step. Her stomach turned. If Dr. S was down, then—who was supposed to take care of them?

She didn't answer. Just turned and walked.

Eventually, she found herself leaning against the glass window that separated the healthy from the sick. She stared out into the dim corridor beyond, watching dust hang in the sunlight like tiny ghosts. Her head fell forward against the glass. She wasn't sick. But that didn't mean she wasn't carrying it.

"Hal?" A soft whisper broke her thoughts.

Hallie looked up. Maggie stood there on the other side, eyes rimmed red, tears not yet fallen.

"Hallie." Maggie's voice cracked.

Hallie gave a soft smile. "Hey."

"You ain't sick... are you?" Maggie asked, fingers brushing the edge of the windowpane like she wanted to reach through.

"No, Maggie... but—Lee's got it."

Maggie sucked in a breath, like it physically hit her. Her hand covered her mouth. Her eyes just searched Hallie's, like she was begging for another answer.

"He won't..." Hallie started, but didn't finish. She didn't need to. Maggie understood. She nodded slowly, eyes brimming. Because despite all the odds, Maggie trusted Hallie. Always had. She knew Hallie would do anything—absolutely anything—to keep Lee alive.

"Let Jeremy know I'm okay," Hallie added. "He'll worry. I know he will."

Maggie nodded again, and then Hallie turned, her silhouette shrinking behind the glass until it disappeared.

"You should be wearin' that mask," Hershel muttered as she entered the hall again, gesturing toward the fabric around her neck.

Hallie blinked, then pulled it up over her mouth and nose without protest. "Lee's sick," she replied simply, bending to help Hershel pour herbal tea into flasks.

The old man gave her a look, full of something between pride and sorrow. "My boy's strong," he said, handing her a cup. His hand lingered just a second too long on hers.

She nodded silently and walked back to the cell. The smell of sickness clung to the air like mildew.

Inside, Lee stirred weakly. She didn't speak. Just helped him sit up, steadying his weight with a hand at his back. "Drink," she instructed, holding the cup to his lips.

He took a slow sip, then another. He managed to take the cup from her accompanied by a nod of his thanks.

Hallie soaked a rag in cold water and wrung it out before pressing it gently to his burning forehead. Her movements were quiet, deliberate.

Tender.

Lee coughed again—worse this time. Dark blood smeared the back of his hand. "You need to go..." he croaked, his voice nearly gone.

She didn't answer.

She just sat beside him on the cold concrete floor, her back to the wall, eyes fixed on the slow, strained rise and fall of his chest. As if watching would keep it going.

As if she could will him to survive.

And maybe, just maybe, she could.

Roman wasn't proud of it—wasn't even sure he wanted to name what he was feeling—but it burned just under his skin, hotter than the fever ever could.

Hallie sat there beside Lee like nothing else mattered. Like Lee was the only person in this damn cell block worth sitting next to. She adjusted the cloth on his forehead again, gentle, slow. Like she was smoothing the edge off death with her bare hands.

Roman watched her with heavy eyes, jaw locked. He shifted on his cot, the movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness through him. He braced an arm on the wall, letting the cool seep into his skin. It didn't help.

He remembered a week ago—maybe less, maybe more; time was strange now—when Hallie had laughed at one of his dumb jokes about the canned peaches they'd scavenged. Something about how they tasted like wet dust and broken dreams. She'd rolled her eyes, smacked him lightly on the arm, but she'd smiled. Really smiled.

He hadn't seen that version of her since the quarry.

Now she only had that look for Lee.

Roman looked away. It was stupid, he knew that. Petty. Immature. But it was there. A sharp little thorn under his ribs every time Hallie adjusted Lee's blanket or whispered something too low for Roman to hear. Something soft. Something that used to be his.

Lee didn't even know what he had. He was barely conscious, barely breathing. And still, she stayed.

Roman leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling limp between them. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him without gloves or a mask. Hallie had sat in this cell before, during supply counts, stitching a tear in her jacket. She used to talk to him like it meant something.

Now she barely looked his way.

Across the block, Lee let out a wet cough that rattled in his chest. Hallie flinched. Her hand went to his shoulder immediately, steadying him, soothing.

Roman scoffed under his breath.

"You're wasting your time," he muttered.

Hallie didn't respond. Maybe she didn't hear. Maybe she was just ignoring him.

He wanted to stop watching. Wanted to close his eyes and pretend he didn't care. But he kept looking. Kept tracking every time she adjusted the blanket or wiped the sweat from Lee's brow. And every time, it was like she was drifting farther and farther from Roman—like he'd already lost something he hadn't even gotten the chance to keep.

He lay back down, folding an arm over his eyes.

Jealousy was a dumb thing to feel when half the world was dead. But Roman had always been good at screwing up his own priorities.

He tried not to picture Hallie holding Lee's hand when he slipped away.

He tried not to wonder if she would've stayed like that for him.

He tried, and failed.