“How’s—” I jerk my head to her nephew, “it going?”

She sighs. “Hard. It’s really, really hard. But I have more than what most people here do, so I’m counting my blessings.” She takes a deep breath, her emotional walls coming up. “But that’s not what I want to talk about right now.” Her eyes move over me. “Where have you been for the last week? You disappeared on me.”

I don’t want to say it, I really, really don’t.

Her eyes pass over me again. “You screwed him, didn’t you?”

I sit down hard and nod.

“Yeah.” I fucked him good.

“Well?” she adds. “Was it worth it?”

I glance at her nephew.

“He has no idea what we’re talking about. It’s fine.”

Not so sure about that …

“So?” Zara presses. I can’t tell if she’s angry. She sounds annoyed, and she seems a bit on edge, but then again, ever since I’ve known her, Zara’s always been a bit edgy.

I give a humorless laugh. “You mean did I enjoy it?” I give her a look. “Yes. I did.” It’s problematic how much I’ve enjoyed it.

“And now you feel guilty?” she asks.

I level a look at her. “Naw …”

The corner of her mouth curves into a sardonic smile. “I don’t judge you, you know,” she says, sitting down next to me.

I chew on my lower lip. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” I say.

She takes my hand, squeezing it tightly. “You convinced that beast to save—” Her voice breaks. Zara nods to her nephew. “War’s killed everyone I loved—except for one person, and that was only because you got through to him. So no, I don’t blame you for screwing the monster, though I’m sorry you’re the one forced to do the deed. I’d sooner saw his balls off, myself.”

I give Mamoon another desperate look, sure that between me and Zara we’re corrupting the poor boy’s ears.

“He saw his parents killed, he’s walked by executions, and now dead men are standing guard outside his tent,” Zara says. “A little sex talk is the least of my worries.”

Fair point.

“I made War a promise not to get in his way, and as much as I hate it, I intend to uphold that promise,” my friend continues. “So have your way with him and don’t think I’m going to cast my judgment on you or walk away from our friendship. I owe you a debt I can never repay. And who knows, maybe you’ll end up saving someone else’s little boy because of your … relationship.”

I give her a tight smile.

“Just don’t avoid me,” she finishes. “I missed your company.”

“Okay,” I say softly.

And that’s the end of the sex talk—at least for now.

For the next couple hours, Zara and I talk about everything and nothing. I could’ve sat with her and chatted the entire day away, but eventually my friend drags me and Mamoon out of the tent, towards a group of women gathered several tents down.

Mamoon keeps giving the zombies around us wide-eyed looks as Zara leads him on.

“They won’t hurt you,” I say. “They’re here to protect us.”

That’s a bit of a lie—they’re here to protect me and no one else—but I won’t let them hurt Mamoon, so it’s nearly the truth. And luckily, my words seem to take the edge off of the toddler’s fear.

The loose circle of women sits under a canvas shelter someone’s erected. They sit and chat while they mend clothes, weave baskets, and do other odd jobs that don’t require much concentration.

When they catch sight of our group, I see one woman slosh a cup of tea she’s drinking. Another gasps.

“What’s this?” another women demands of Zara. She doesn’t bother looking at me.

“War’s wife decided to join our group,” my friend replies, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The women grow quiet, each of them eyeing me, some curiously, others unkindly. One gives me a small smile. I recognize a face here and there from when I lived in this quarter of camp, but no one acts as though I was ever like them.

“Of course you’re both welcome,” one woman says a little stiffly. Her face warms when she sees Mamoon. “David is playing soccer with Omar if you’d like to join.” She points behind her, towards the end of the tents, where two small boys are kicking a weathered ball around.

Mamoon glances up at his aunt, and when she gives a nod of her head, the little boy goes running off towards his new friends.

Zara keeps her eyes on him for several seconds after that, her face pinched with worry. There’s always something to worry about here—the soldiers’ cruelty, the numerous weapons scattered about camp, the sheer size of our tented city. A child could get swallowed up whole.

“Would either of you like some tea?” one of the women asks.

Zara blinks, moving her attention to the woman. “No thank you.”

“I’m good too,” I say.

I shoo my undead guards away as the group makes room for us in the circle. After a tense few minutes, conversation returns to normal.

“… I saw Itay go into her tent last night.”

Some tittering laughter.

“So that’s who was making her find God while the rest of us were trying to sleep.”

“Poor Ayesha next door has a child. Try explaining that one!”

Shocked laughter rolls through the group.

I listen to them, strangely fascinated. All around us, people are dying by the thousands, and yet here these women are, gossiping about someone getting laid.

“How’s War?” asks a woman, her curious gaze falling on me.

At first the question doesn’t even register. It’s not until the other women turn their gazes on me that I realize they all want to know about my sex life and oh my God I did not sign up for this when I decided to visit Zara this morning.

“What do you mean?” I say, faking ignorance.

The woman’s mouth curves into a smile. “Has he made you find God?”

Someone else chimes in. “Of course he has. Otherwise there wouldn’t be dead men guarding her.”

It’s painful how accurate that statement is.

“What I want to know,” another woman says, “is how good the horseman was at giving you a religious experience.”

Several of the women laugh; even Zara cracks a smile.

They’re trying to include me, I realize. This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition, this is how these women connect, despite all their differences. They’re all relatively new friends, after all.

“Do you really want to know?” I say.

This is so embarrassing.

A few women nod.

I gather together my confidence. “The horseman is definitely better at love than war.”

It’s not entirely true, but it causes the women around me to titter with good natured laughter.

“That man was made to please a woman,” someone else adds. More chuckles.

The conversation moves on, and everyone seems to breathe a little easier.

My heart lifts when I realize that I passed whatever test they threw at me. I might’ve come as War’s wife, but I’ll be leaving as one of them.