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Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.
—“The Garden of Proserpine”
by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Caroline woke in bed alone, her panic rising again, but the sounds of the shower relieved her fears that Lincoln was gone. After last night’s mind-blowing passion, the possible repercussions, and the radio contact from the CDC, her entire world had changed.
She tried to process both the fear and excitement about how she and Lincoln might be more than partners in survival—that they might be parents too. And the thought of a cure? That was news she never thought she’d hear. After the world had los
