“Probably not going to,” Strange repeats, echoing her words, his voice dry and dead as the grave —

but he’s always appreciated callous practicality over blind hope, so, fine. His mouth curls as he looks down at that paper again, some of the details smudged into obscurity.

Try as he might to be cold and clinical, the hindbrain keeps recoiling from all of this. He simply can’t imagine growing up here. Living a life. Being a child. Abby and Ellie were both born after the outbreak — how in the world did that even work? But he tries to tamp down on that brewing existential horror; reins it in before it can spill loose on this kid. (Not even really a kid anymore, probably.)

“If it gets into your lungs, is it fatal? Like needing to avoid those areas with the spores.”

They hadn’t had enough gas masks to go around for their whole group; they’d had to steer wide berths around some of that thick, muggy atmosphere.