When morning arrives, a murky light slants through the windows.

I'm sitting on the floor, my body slumped against Papa's bed. I lift my head and an ache squeezes my skull, a nagging pain that advances down my neck and across my shoulders. I hadn't meant to fall asleep, but as the minutes turned to hours and still no sign of Honor and Thomas, my eyes grew heavier and heavier until I could no longer keep them open.

They're still not here. My brain pushes past the different scenarios that might be holding them up but every solution leaves me more disheartened than the last.

Are they with Mr. Baptiste? Has he made them his prisoners, too?

I've never felt more trapped. All I want to do is bring them home, but I'm afraid to leave Papa alone. His breathing's worse. His lungs rattle now, a series of short, wet gasps emitting from deep inside his chest. When I offered him more tea, he shoved the cup away and fell into a deep yet restless sleep.

Wind whistles around the windows, the dark sky marbling into a lighter shade of gray. If there weren't so many clouds, the first rays of sunlight would filter through the curtains. I miss the golden beams on my face, their comforting warmth as they embrace me. But the sun abandoned us.

My bottom shifts against the hardwood, the scratches on my wrist clinging to the sleeve of my dress and pulling at my skin. I tug at the material and the wounds slice open, ribbons of yellow drainage streaming down into my palm.

Everyday I think they can't get any worse, and yet they always prove me wrong. No matter what I do or how I treat them, they won't heal.

A thought nags at me, an urgent formation that refuses to go away. What if they don't get better? What if they make me sick, infect me with whatever poison took Andrew? He's the one who gave them to me. What if they turn me into—

No! There's no such thing as the Undead.

I push myself up, bracing against the mattress, and a black haze creeps along the edge of my vision. I count to five, willing the dizzy spell to pass, when a sudden hiss rises from the bed. I whip around as Papa rolls to his side and faces me. A smear of blood stains his chin, and covers the blankets.

His eyes open.

"Papa!" I go to him, my heart spiking in my chest.

He's too weak to sit up on his own. Flinching against the pain, I scoop my arm under his neck and stuff another pillow beneath his head. He's still hot to the touch.

His face angles toward mine and he smiles. Blood cakes between his teeth and long, viscous strands stretch from his lips. "Rose. I've missed you so much."

He still thinks I'm Mama. "No, Papa. It's me. Faith. Your daughter."

His brows furrow and a deep crease forms between his eyes. And then his forehead lifts. "Faith..."

He does remember. At least, for now.

As I pull back the covers, my chest rises with a gasp. Blood pools across his chest and down his sleeve.

"Papa, we need to change your shirt." With trembling fingers, I work at the buttons and try to pull his arms from the sleeves. But he's dead weight, like lifting a bulky sack of potatoes. I force myself to stay calm. To not let him see how frightened I am. Maybe if I put more kerosene on his chest, his breathing will improve. I reach for the can and aim the spout toward my hand.

It's empty.

The room spins, my shriek rebounding off the walls. "No!" The can drops to the floor with a thud.

Pushing tangles of hair from my face, I close my eyes and breathe deep. Everything is under control. All I have to do is run to the store. We need more kerosene for the lanterns and stove anyway.

I flip Papa's blankets so the blood is at the foot of the bed and force my shoulders to relax. "I have to run into town, but I'll only be gone a short while."

I'm not sure if he hears me.

Shrugging into my coat, I grab the empty can and twist the nail at the front door, allowing myself outside. The snow has stopped, and the air is cool and crisp, the scent of firewood frozen on the breeze.

I need to hurry. The sooner I get to the store, the sooner I'll be able to take care of Papa. And then look for Honor and Thomas.

My muscles spasm as I push toward town, past Eliza's house, and Thomas'. Past the lighthouse. The church and cemetery.

The store is in sight now. Puffs of smoke rise from the chimney, and a warm orange glow radiates from the front window, the silhouette of various jars lining up along the glass.

It's early, but they're open. I knew they would be. The Lloyd's are always the first ones awake and the last to go to sleep.

As I shoulder through the door, the bell clangs overhead, and I'm swallowed by warmth and the earthy scent of leather. Leaving boot prints in the soot, I move toward the counter. Victor's arranging a display of boots, tying each pair together by their laces.

His eyes snap to mine as I approach. "What are you doing here so early?"

There's a prickle in my throat. I cough, refusing to meet his gaze. "We need more kerosene. Papa asked to put it on his tab." I set the can on the counter and slide it toward him.

He grabs the container and turns on his heel. "Did you hear the news?"

Oil streams into the can and spills down the side of the container. The pungent odor flares my nostrils.

I don't have time for small talk. "What news?"

Sweat trickles down the center of my back.

"Thomas is missing," he says. "They think he's Undead."

My heart jumps as I meet his eyes. "What?"

Victor tightens the lid and plops the can onto the counter. "He didn't come home last night. They don't know where he is."

"Who says he's Undead?" The weight of his stare steals my breath.

"Everyone." He shrugs. "The constable. Pastor Turner. His parents."

My pulse pounds in my ears. "Why would they think that? Did they even look for him? They can't just assume!"

"Constable Webster was here late last night. I told him I hadn't seen Thomas since yesterday morning when—" His face pales.

Victor hasn't seen him since our teacher was murdered in the street. "But they never checked at our house."

"They will. I heard him tell Pa they were resuming their search in the morning."

It is morning. Any minute now, the constable will be at my house. I need to get home before he finds Papa.

Victor pushes the kerosene across the counter and the container scrapes along the wood. "Have you seen Thomas?"

The room lurches, the outline of Victor blurring in front of me. When my fingers brush my forehead, they come back moist, my skin slick with perspiration. I need to leave. I don't feel well.

But Victor's inquisition isn't over. "Well—have you?" His voice sounds farther away than it should. Or like it's muffled under blankets.

An itch constricts my throat. I shake my head, unable to speak.

Victor glances over his shoulder and lowers his voice. "He broke curfew. The constable told Pa if he sees him, he can shoot."

Shoot Thomas?

My breath catches as the creeping sensation at the back of my throat intensifies. With each passing second, it claws and scratches along my windpipe until I finally concede. Burying my mouth in my arm, I cough into my coat, over and over and over until I'm gasping for air. When I pull away, dots of crimson seep into the wool.

My body goes rigid, my fingering flying to my lips. They're sticky to the touch. As I bringing them eye-level, blood glistens along my skin.

This can't be happening.

Victor's eyes widen as they fix on my sleeve.

He shifts uneasily, the color draining between his freckles. "I, um, I have to check in the house for something. I have to see if—Ma..." His stammer trails off as he inches toward the door, his fingers fumbling for the knob. His voice rises in a scream. "Mother!"

I need to leave. Now.

With trembling hands, I grab the kerosene from the countertop and throw open the front door, breaking into a sprint as soon as my boots hit the street. Wind beats against my face but I push through the sting as clouds of breath explode from my mouth.

I'm bleeding, the evidence smeared across my sleeve.

Once Victor tells his mother, word will spread quickly that the Undead have infected yet another. It's only a matter of time before a mob will come to kill me. Men I've known my entire life will chase after me with guns and daggers and flames, and they won't stop until I'm nothing more than a stain on the earth where a girl used to be.

Sweat trickles down my face.

I glance over my shoulder as a new panic crashes in my chest. If I go home, I'm leading them straight to my father. But no matter where I run to, they'll find him anyway. The damage is done. Through no fault of my own, I've sealed his fate.

I don't know what to do.

The only thing I can do is try and save him. To somehow rescue Papa from the people we've called friends. People who will now do anything to make sure we're dead, our hearts cut from our bodies and burned to ash.

My ankle catches a rock and my legs tangle in my skirts. I lurch forward, my knees and palms slamming into the ice. The container of kerosene topples down beside me and I let out a cry. I snatch up the can and drive myself forward, pushing harder and faster, up the snowy path until finally the peak of our farmhouse comes into view.

My boots slip on the ice but I continue up the long slope of road. It feels like a mountainside, but I refuse to slow down until I'm at the front porch. My knees buckle and I collapse against the steps, the strand of garlic around my neck swinging violently as my lungs suck in shallow bits of air. My vision blurs around the edges.

I need to get inside.

On shaky legs, I push off the stairs and grip the kerosene can tighter, the handle slippery in my palm. Porch boards groan beneath my boots as I reach for the doorknob. I have no idea what's waiting on the other side. Will Papa be alive, or will he be—

The Undead aren't real.

As I open the door, my gaze stumbles throughout the house, my eyes and ears working overtime. Everything is just as I left it. I step over the threshold. Embers crackle in the stove, yet it does nothing to relieve the chill in my bones.

I creep across the floor like a specter and stand before the bedroom, preparing myself for what's on the other side. When I push the door open, I'm engulfed in the hazy murk of morning seeping through the curtains. Papa's still under the blankets. He's turned away from me, his shallow breaths expanding the outline of his back.

Gulping down a breath, I tiptoe around the bed until I'm facing him and silently beg his eyes to open. For him to tell me he's no longer ill. To promise me everything will be okay, just like he did when I was a child.

He doesn't.

The image of Papa as a healthy young man fills my head. Now, he's just a shell of who he once was. Still tall and broad-shouldered, with a whiskered jaw and profound air of authority, but not nearly as sturdy. If I'm honest with myself, his clothes have been sagging for quite some time. His eyes sunken, casting shadows along his cheeks.

Has it been since Mama passed away, or was it before? How long has he been sick?

As if sensing my presence, Papa's eyes flutter open, and a breath of relief punches out of my lungs. He struggles to focus. It takes a moment, but when he realizes I'm here, the tenderness I've always known shines through.

I set the kerosene on the bed and kneel down in front of him. Take his hand in mine and press it to my cheek. I wait for him to speak, to impart those reassuring words I need to hear.

But they don't come.

"How are you feeling, Papa? I have medicine for your chest."

His head lifts from the pillow. Beads of sweat mark his upper lip. "I am so sorry, my sweet girl."

My eyes fill with tears. For the first time in months, I let them spill onto my face and drip down my chin. "You have nothing to be sorry for. It's just a little cold, that's all. You're going to get better."

"I'm not." His voice is barely a whisper.

I shake my head, not wanting to believe it. "You will, Papa. I have kerosene. We'll put more on your chest to help you breathe."

His gaze softens, his lips dry and cracked. "I'm afraid it's too late."

Panic explodes inside of me, shooting through my limbs like bolts of lightning. "Don't say that! I can make you better—just give me a chance." As I rip at the blankets, his calloused hand reaches for mine.

My body sags. I drape myself over him, my shoulders convulsing with sobs. I lay my head on his chest and close my eyes against the rattle.

Papa's hand rests along my head and slides down to my back, over and over until I'm all out of tears. An eerie calm comes over me, and I raise my head. I want to tell him about the blood on my sleeve but then I stop myself. There's no reason for him to know. It will only make him worry.

Still, I need to warn him. "They're coming," I whisper. "They'll be here any minute."

He gives me a slow nod. "I knew they would be."

His hand reaches for my face. I cup it to me, and hold on for dear life. "What should I do?"

Papa swallows hard, the effort making him cringe. "There's only one thing you can do." His eyes drop to the can of kerosene sticking up from the blankets.

At first, I don't understand, then the realization crashes into me. I shake my head. "No."

"Faith ..."

My head twists faster from side to side. "There has to be another way!"

His lips spread into a thin line until they almost disappear. "It's the only way."

The words slice through me, making the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"I've lived a happy life. I've loved a good woman and raised two beautiful children. Your mother and I made this world a better place by bringing you and Honor into it. And now it's time for me to go."

My voice comes out a whisper. "Papa, I can't."

"You must. If you don't, someone else will. And I can't bear to die at the hands of my desperate neighbors. Please, Faith. Do this for me," he begs with a feverish stare. "And then save yourself and your brother."

But there's blood on my sleeve, and a searing pain in my chest. And Honor is still missing. "I don't know how to!"

Papa grips my hands between his. A crease deepens in his forehead. "You'll find a way. Your life is only just beginning. You're smart, and clever, and strong. And you are so very brave. And even when the world feels impossible, you live by faith." He squeezes my hands. "You need to hurry—we're running out of time."

He's right, but I would give anything for there to be another way.

My gaze falls to the can of kerosene before reconnecting with his. "I love you." I throw my arms around him and lay my head on his chest. A coarse inhale of crackles vibrates against my ear.

His whisper caresses my hair. "I love you, too. Please tell Honor the same. You're my entire world."

The ache in my throat makes it difficult to speak. "I promise, Papa. I'll never let him forget."

We stay like this for another moment. Then I force myself up and reach for the kerosene.