Knock knock knock.
I’ve never been one to tap on someone’s door. If I need to get in, I’m going to demand attention; I’m not some polite Amazon delivery-man. My hands are already sweaty in the sterile gloves, which pinch at my wrists. I can’t wait to take them off.
“I’m coming,” a soft voice calls from the other side of the door.
Good.
Through the door, I hear the chain slide and the bolt unlatches. She opens the door and I act quickly. I reach into my jacket. I grip the handle, my finger resting on the trigger. I’m careful not to squeeze too soon.
Charlie Ross stands before me in her doorway.
I aim for her forehead and pull the trigger.
Doot doot doot.
A pleasant chime indicates that the handheld thermometer has given her a passing temperature. She rolls her beautiful blue eyes at me, but I can’t be too safe.
“You don’t have a fever,” I announce, my words muffled by the mask. “Is it intestinal?” Involuntarily, I move backwards. Only a slight lean just in case.
Charlie crosses her arms and shakes her head.
“So you aren’t sick,” I respond.
“I am,” she corrects.
I remove my mask and gloves and enter her apartment, brushing past Charlie. I don’t mean to, but the soft fabric of her blue pajama set caresses my knuckles as I pass. When she opened the door, I could tell she wasn’t prepared for company. Still in pajamas at 10 a.m. Her long hair is piled high in a bun on top of her head.
“Why are you here?” she asks, as she closes and relocks the apartment door, a weariness to her voice.
“I wanted to make sure you were actually sick. Not being intimidated by members of the Order or that you didn’t lock yourself in.” The last option was meant to be a joke. Sort of.
I do a quick scan of her apartment. Charlie has her curtains closed; the midmorning light that filters through them casts a soft pink glow over her living area. There is a bookshelf next to her entertainment center bursting with books, the spines arranged in rainbow order. Her place is tidy and warm, with bright pops of color here and there. The furniture isn’t just the standard post-college cheap stuff everyone buys because it’s all they can afford. There are some stylish pieces that give her place a level of sophistication I hadn’t expected. It’s welcoming; it looks like a home.
“No, I’m just too tired to function. And I’m in pain, but I can only take Tylenol. And, by the way, Tylenol is the shittiest pain reliever ever.” Charlie isn’t one to complain so I’m shocked by her rant.
“So that’s why you’re out today?” I’m tired too. I’m sore from my training ride and I still clocked in. I didn’t take Charlie for the type to use her sick days unless absolutely necessary.
“I didn’t call out. I’m working from home,” she says, sauntering over to the side table, shuffling in her fuzzy slippers. I take a seat on her couch, which is deep and comfortable. “Besides, I told Oliver.”
“No, youtextedOliver,” I correct her. “Charlie, anyone can incapacitate you, unlock your phone, and send a text.”
Charlie looks at me, fear in her eyes. I can’t believe I have to continue to explain these things to her. She turns away, her expression uneasy.
“Charlie, you have access to the schedule, personal and business, for the entire executive team. Of course the Order would be keenly interested in you,” I remind her.
She shakes her head, as if that could keep my warning from settling in her mind. “I’m not much in the mood for company,” she says, abruptly changing topics.
“Well, can you tell me what’s going on?” I ask. I came all this way to make sure she was OK. I expect some answers.
“I’m sick, Declan,” she says.
“We’ve already ruled out a fever. Did you take a COVID test?” I regret removing my mask before confirming.
Charlie lets out a sigh and turns to face me again. “No, Declan. I have a chronic illness. I have an autoimmune condition.” She shakes her head again and continues her slow shuffle to the far corner of her apartment.
Oh. I didn’t expect that. Autoimmune? I don’t know much about this class of illnesses, but my aunt has psoriasis. I think that’s one. I do another sweep of the room. There’s a heating pad next to me on the couch, warming one side of my body. There are balms and creams on the coffee table. “I know people with autoimmune conditions, which one?”
Charlie bends down to get something. I realize I should offer to help, but before I can, she stands and in one quick motion takes aim at me. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” she says before pulling the trigger.
