Z's been here for a week now, living off of what she can find in pantries in the abandoned building (her can opener is her dearest possession, and she's put it on a necklace, all Martha Stewart chique). Her favorite apartment is the one on the third floor with enormous windows. It doesn't have any furniture, which either means the people who lived there took it with them or there were some very thorough looters. Z thinks it was probably a bit of both.

Anyway, she's been steadily populating the rooms with a chair there, a cushion here, and she dragged a mattress three stories down (it's not like the elevator is working) so she could have somewhere to sleep.

It's really quiet, most days. Sometimes there's a rumble like another crash is coming, but it never goes anywhere.

One day though, one day she wakes up and is absolutely sure someone's staring at her. And wow, okay, there's a girl on the floor.

"Hi," Z says, and the girl waggles her fingers like she's saying hello back. She doesn't open her mouth, as if--

"You can't talk, can you?" Z blurts out, and the girl shakes her head. A bunch of people got their vocal chords burned out in the third crash, if they were outside when it hit.

"Sorry," Z says. The girl shrugs. "Oh! I'm Z."

The girl squirms a little and takes out a folded piece of paper, which is--a map of the US? Z shifts closer so she can see where she's pointing, and after a few false starts, she realizes--"Your name is Tennessee? Is that it?"

The girl, no, Tennessee smiles, wide and breath-taking, and nods.