Here’s the end of that same scene from AFTER, because some of you asked for it — and because I lost tonight writing a post on gender in media that I need someone to sanity check for me tomorrow. Just you wait!
“Maybe it’s fine there,” Kit said, later. He was walking in the dusty strip of ditch between the highway and a still-fenced field. “Maybe Vegas was a fluke.”
“A fluke?” Scout stepped over the skull of something that might have been a cow. “Seriously?”
Kit shrugged, shoulders jerky under the weight of his pack. “Maybe. You don’t know. You’re not, like, a prophet.”
Scout snorted, pulling her baseball cap down over her eyes. “Wanna go back and find out?” she asked him, and saw the flush of colour crawl up his neck before he ducked his head.
Kit climbed out of the ditch and onto the road, skirting a fallen section of fence. “No,” he said finally, “I don’t want to go back and find out. I just wish we could have. You know.”
“Taken more stuff?”
Kit’s shoulders tensed. “Said goodbye.”
“I told you not to make friends.”