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Taking it in.

He scans the room once, then gets to work—pulling back the blankets, checking the bathroom, adjusting the thermostat.

I sit on the edge of the bed because it feels like the most logical place to be.

I close my eyes briefly.

When I open them, he’s standing in front of me, watching me with that same steady focus.

“Come on.” He guides me back, one hand at my arm, the other catching the shift of my weight before I can misjudge it. The mattress dips under me, the room tilting just slightly as I settle.

I stare up at the ceiling.

Indicators of compromised condition: Tachycardia. Nausea. Loss of equilibrium.

And something else. Something that has nothing to do with the virus.

This is not how this was supposed to go.

14

PAUSE THE TAPE

BARYN

By the time I make it to the door, my fingers have gone numb beneath three plastic grocery bags. The cardboard coffee carrier tilts just enough to slosh the two lukewarm coffees, and I pin a six-pack of ginger ale against my hip before it slips to the floor.

I awkwardly shift everything, balancing the coffee carrier on my forearm long enough to slip the key card into the slot.

The light flashes green.

The bolt clicks.

The room is dark, lit only by the dull wash of a parking lot light leaking through the gap in the heavy polyester curtains. It's been cleaned recently—wiped down, straightened, reset.

Scrubbed of its humanity.

It looks less like a hotel and more like her lab—sterile, organized, and completely devoid of any evidence that a struggle just took place. She’s a forensic specialist to her marrow.

It’s impressive, in a terrifying sort of way.

I see the shape of her under the duvet—a small, miserable ridge of white fabric. She stirs. A dark, sleep-mussed fringe pokes out from the covers, followed by one squinting eye that looks at me like I’m a particularly bright sun.

God, she's cute.

"You're back," she croaks. Her voice is raw, each syllable catching on the way out.

"I’m back." I set the bags down on the laminated dresser. "Brought the cavalry. Saltines, ginger ale, the good nausea meds and an electrolyte drink that’s flavored like 'Blue,' whatever the hell that means."

Serena groans, shifting upward. She’s so pale; a translucent, sickly shade that makes her freckles stand out like constellations against a winter sky. There’s a sudden, leaden weight behind my sternum. It's an annoying pressure in the center of my chest—a protective instinct I haven't quite figured out how to turn off yet.

"You really shouldn't be in here." She pulls the duvet up to her chin. "I’m a biohazard and I’ve already ruined your entire day, don't let me give you a stomach flu as a parting gift."

I ignore her and start unpacking the bags, lining up the cans of ginger ale like little green soldiers on the nightstand. "I don't get sick, Serena. My immune system is basically a brick wall. I grew up as a bored only child wandering a private acreage full of expensive, un-quarantined livestock—a forty-room estate where my mother’s charity involved turning the East Wing into a sanctuary for diseased goats. Believe me, I’ve been exposed to every pathogen known to man. Your little stomach bug doesn't stand a chance."

"That’s not how immunology works," she mutters, but she’s sitting up now, leaning her back against the headboard. She's curled into one corner of the king-sized bed, somehow managing to take up almost none of it.

"Immunology can wait," I crack open a ginger ale and I hand it to her. "Drink. Small sips."