Eamon Tierney
The boy on my examination table was twelve years old and trembling so hard the metal frame rattled beneath him. His mother stood at his side, fingers clenched in the fabric of his shirt like she could hold him together by force alone. She hadn’t cried yet, but her eyes were red-rimmed and hollow in that particular way I’d come to recognize far too well.
I closed the door to my clinic and locked it.
That alone was an actof rebellion.
The sign outside still read Dr. Eamon Tierney, Internal Medicine, printed cleanly in government-issued lettering. The waiting room beyond the walls was full of polite desperation: coughs, bandaged hands, malnutrition disguised as exhaustion.
I pulled on fresh gloves and met the boy’s eyes.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” I said gently.
He swallowed. “I was in the alley behind the bakery. There was a noise. I thought it was a dog.”
His pulse was fast. Too fast. His pupils were already dilating.
I nodded and reached for the stethoscope. “And the bite?”
He lifted his sleeve.
The marks were small, but they were unmistakable.
I kept my expression neutral and leaned in, listening to his heart. A little too fast, but still human. His temperature was elevated but not spiking just yet.
“How long ago?” I asked.
“An hour,” the mother whispered. “Please. I didn’t know where else to go.”
I straightened and peeled off my gloves slowly, buying myself some time.
“All right,” I said. “We’re going to take some blood. Just a routine panel.”
Her eyes widened. “Shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we report it?”
There it was.
The question that had ruined more lives than the Collapse itself.
I met her gaze steadily. “Not yet.”
Her breath shuddered out of her. “Thank you.”
I didn’t thank her back.
I took the blood myself, labeling the vial with a code that meant nothing to anyone but me. I logged his temperature incorrectly, just enough to seem normal. I altered the preliminary report before it ever touched anyone else’s hands.
By the time the military officer arrived two hours later, the boy was asleep in my back room under a sedative mild enough to slow the change without triggering suspicion.
The officer smiled when I let him in.
They always smiled.
“Doctor Tierney,” he said, glancing around my pristine clinic. “We’ve had reports of a possible exposure in this district.”
“I’m aware,” I replied calmly. “The child in question is stable. He’s human.”
The officer studied my face, searching for something. Fear. Guilt. Complicity.
