don’t have a doctor,” he says, coughing harshly into his elbow again.
“We have Addison,” I say. “She will help you.”
“She can’t do nothing,” he says. “Done saw her. She doesn’t know any more than anyone else. Told me I’m sick, like I didn’t already know that.”
“Then you should be in bed,” I call down to him. “Rest is good for humans who do not feel well.”
“That’s what she said too,” he said, coughing again. “But who’s going to watch the door?”
“I am sure it will be fine,” I say, shaking my head.
“You’re not Rosalind,” he says. “I take my orders from her.”
“No,” I agree. “I’m not, but I need to go outside to meet the Tribe. They do not know about the quarantine, and the grain delivery is today.”
“Well, what’s stopping you?” he asks, waving his free hand as he coughs into his other elbow.
“I do not wish to be rude, but I cannot risk being exposed to what you have,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll understand some precautions, in accordance with the quarantine.”
“Fine,” he huffs.
He stands up, weaves back and forth and it takes every ounce of my will not to rush forward to steady him. He places a hand on the softly humming dome and steadies himself then pushes off and shuffles a few strides away.
“Thank you,” I say, moving to the airlock.
“Sure,” he says between coughs.
I reach for the pad to open it but stop before I touch it. Careful. Do not touch things that might be infected. I pull a piece of cloth out of my pocket and wipe the pad down before using it. The continued coughing from over my shoulder makes my scales crawl. Is this the flu that Addison told me of? It looks miserable, and I feel for the man to be suffering so.
The door to the airlock swishes open. I step in, letting the automatic cycles do their work as the door closes and the air pressure is normalized again. Finally it opens on the other side out into the desert.
I step out into the blessed heat and lean my head back, basking in the warmth. It’s amazing. I want to throw myself into the loose sand and roll around. If Malcolm was with me, I would. The best part of being a father is getting to act like a child with no one judging you.
I smile as I think about my son. I never considered this life would be mine. Before Amara, I was resigned. I knew I would die, alone, and the only purpose in life was to live. That is no life at all. Living for the sake of oneself is no reason to carry on, yet I did. Drawn forward by something. Only now do I know it was her.
Some part of me, so deep I wasn’t aware of it, must have known she was in my future. That Malcolm was. My son who will one day be a prophet. A seer such as I dimly recall existing before the Devastation.
Resisting my instinct to roll in the sand, I climb the nearest dune. When I reach the crest, I close the outer lenses of my eyes and stare across the desert, looking for the incoming Tribe members. I spot them, but they are further away than I would have thought. Either I am early or they’re running behind. Glancing at the two suns tells me that they’re not on time.
It’s fine. I wait, wiggle my toes in the soft, hot sand, letting it cover my feet. The warmth soaks into my scales, and I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation.
The only thing that would make this moment better is if Amara and Malcolm were with me. Malcolm would race down the dune and laugh. In my imagination I can hear him giggling. Amara would yell for him to be careful. She worries, sometimes too much, but it is her way of showing how much she cares. How big her heart is, so much that she embraces us with it.
The time passes, and the Tribe delegation comes closer. They’re pulling a sled along behind them, loaded with grain for the bivo. The bivo are not happy being penned in. It’s against their nature, but the theory is that in a couple of generations, they’ll be adjusted to it.
I hope the theory is right. We need a reliable source of meat. The area around the City has been hunted out. We were having to travel days out to find