Evan supposed that it wasn't difficult for some. He could see what she was saying, absolutely. If you were comfortable where you were, it could feel just like living rather than just surviving.
But for Evan, who protected a sister who wished he was dead and a brother who seized up at the sight of the infected; kept their immunity secret so that they didn't have to fight? For Evan, who went through each night desperately missing what he'd lost? For Evan, who had more people who hated him than liked him, and had people flat out wish for him to die? No, it didn't feel like living. Still, he didn't hold Eloise's happiness against her. He was finished doing that.
"I suppose it depends on who you are, oui?" he asked, giving her a slightly sadder smile now. "I'm glad you've found a way to live, though. It says a lot about your survival skills—or living skills, if you will."
He was about to comment on how it wasn't so much nice as it was true, when one of the army guards shouted from a distance. "Marchand!" he snapped. "In the van in two or we're leaving without you. This isn't a fuckin' social call!"
"Ah," Evan chuckled awkwardly, sliding the book he had in his hand into his pack. "That's my ride. Back to Grand Central I go."
It was an awkward note to leave on, so he dropped back into English before he left. "Perhaps I'll come back and visit," he said as he backed toward the end of the row of books.