Our truck was the only thing moving in the dead city when we found the girl. She carried no answers, just an RPG.

When the monster-pigeon dove from the red sky, I failed to kill it. She didn't. One shot turned it into a mountain of safe, edible meat.

The celebration died when the weeping started from the shadows. Mournful cries for "my beautiful bird."

We'd just murdered someone's pet. And we were going to eat it.

As we drove away with our bloody prize, the girl stayed silent. But her eyes kept drifting to my dashboard—to the photo I'd taken from the crying man's wall. A preserved body with a strange, golden scar over its heart.