The Immune

34. Resurrection

After another night of fitful sleep, I drag myself out of bed in the morning and slump to the bathroom. Once again, I thank God that Ollie got the power plant up and running. The water steams up the mirror and sears my skin but not once do I complain. Living in a semi-warm world again feels magical.

As I'm brushing out my hair, though, a sing-song chiming echoes around the house. The brush freezes, and I look around in confusion. What in the world? Realization hits as it happens again.

The doorbell.

The return of constant electricity might have brought back central heat and air, water heaters, and good refrigeration, but it also brought back dumb things like doorbells. I yank the brush through my hair one more time and start to braid it. Someone else can answer the door.

My once quiet house erupts into noise. Stephen's boisterous laugh. Belle's excited chattering. My father's gentle questioning. The only time I've heard him talk like that is in the infirmary. One of his patients must have come to visit. I wrap the hair band around the bottom of my braid and start to pull my uniform on.

A new voice joins the other. I say new, but it's so familiar that I stop moving to listen. It's soft and lilting, the tiniest accent as proof of a mixed genealogy. The person laughs, and I almost drop the hair brush. Where do I know that laugh? It's so perfect, so familiar...

"Jay!" I startle at Mandy's yelling.

"Coming!" I call back as I tug on my jacket.

Everyone stands at the bottom of the stairs, circled around a person whose back is turned towards me. The visitor wears the powder blue pants issued by the infirmary and a plain white t-shirt. The colorful pictures on his arms catch the light and reflect it back towards me. Their dark, black hair is pulled up into a bun, strands sticking out at odd angles and curls fighting to get out.

My blood freezes in my veins. Only one person in the world has sleeve tattoos like that, black curls like that....

"Isaac," I say breathlessly. He turns slowly, smirking up at me.

I stop breathing. Everything in the room stops with it. Our eyes lock, and nothing else exists. I couldn't move if I wanted to; I don't think my legs work anymore. The face I've been starving to see for two months is right in front of me. Am I dreaming?

If I am, please don't let me wake up anytime soon.

A darkness lives in his once bright green eyes, though. He slumps slightly, leaning on the banister of the stairs for support. The hand dangling at his side shakes— harder than it did before. Like me, he's lost weight, showing in his face and arms. I meet his gaze again, and his lips part slightly. Tears jump to my eyes.

"Come here," he whispers, shattering the silence.

Taking the steps two at a time, I bound down and throw myself at him. My arms lock around his neck as he staggers backwards. I bury my face in his neck and let the tears flow. His hands plant themselves in my lower back, pulling me closer, until there's a negative amount of space between us. Where he stops, I begin.

"I thought you weren't coming back," I mumble into his neck. He nuzzles my head for a minute then clears his throat.

"I'm so sorry. I wanted to come back quicker, but I had to go through a lot of physical therapy. Apparently, healing is a long process."

I pull away enough to look down at his leg. His pants prevent me from seeing anything. "Are you— I mean, is it— "

"A mess of scars and new skin," he says with a dry laugh. "But it's my leg, and I'm grateful for that." He grabs my chin and tugs my face up to his. "Why wouldn't I come back?"