By the light of your headlamp you pick off another zombie that was hammering at the barricade, and I hand you the second rifle, already loaded. With only a handful of .22s at our disposal, this was the system we came up with. The world is ending at summer camp, and you are good at shooting guns and making fires and I am good at arts and crafts.
“We are going to die,” I say.
“Yes,” you say, “we are.”
There is a momentarily lull in the conversation during which you kill more of the walking dead. Thunder rumbles.
“I never had the heart to tell you this, but I feel it is worth mentioning now,” I say, “I am in love with you. I think you are beautiful and funny and you have wonderful aim.”
You say, “pass me another rifle.”
I say, “there is no one else with whom I would rather be spending my last moments.”
You say, “I wish I was with my family.”
I say, “yes, I’m sorry, I know,” and I hand you another gun and you shoot another zombie, and I think about all the colors I could have used for your friendship bracelet.