Humon Error

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There were worse ways to spend the holidays. Even leaving out nuclear winter, Benedict could think of several. Like in a hospital. On a battlefield. At a Humans First rally—no, that was the same thing as a battlefield. At least it had been in October, when he’d lost six men himself and too many others had died, including . . .

“Good grief. Don’t look so grim.”

“I’m not grim,” he said automatically. He had the sense to shut his mouth without explaining that he’d been cheering himself up by comparing visiting Arjenie’s family to spending time with tubes in his veins and other places. Never mind that the visit came out ahead. It wouldn’t sound right.

She didn’t say a word. This was unusual enough to get his attention. He stole a glance away from the unfamiliar road.

The woman in the passenger’s seat was slightly above average height, definitely below average weight, with black-framed glasses, a narrow face, and long red hair so extravagantly curly it seemed to have a life of its own. She was shining with happiness. And his. She was his, and beautiful beyond words, and he’d cross the country on foot if that’s what it took to give her such joy.

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