That's the first thing I notice when I crawl out of the collapsed convenience store—the sky is the color of old bruises, purple and yellow swirling together like someone's been fighting up there. The air tastes like copper and ash.

I've been sleeping on a mattress that smelled like someone died on it, which they probably did. My ribs ache. My left hand won't stop shaking.

It's been three weeks.

Behind him, I hear the others stirring. A cough. The scrape of boots on concrete.