his back pocket and dialled his mother, who answered after the second ring and responded with her typical efficiency.
“I’ll see what I can do. Somebody must have Julia’s number.” Gretchen’s voice thickened as though she was getting choked up. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, honey.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Elliot hung up, feeling a momentary reprieve from disaster. Then the professor lunged forward in a coughing fit and, when it passed, remained half-supported against Elliot’s chest. Elliot had no idea how long they spent like that. His legs began to fall asleep. The ceiling-mounted televisions conferred a dissonant sense of normality carrying on, urgency dribbling away.
On the news was a story about the Taser-related deaths of three civilians following the Police Commissioner’s authorization of the use of force against people violating quarantine. The familiar photo of ARAMIS Girl flashed on the screen just as Keelan moaned, his whole body quivering. Elliot struggled to his feet but only made it up into a semi-crouch that radiated pain through his leg muscles.
“We need help here!” he shouted. But the rest of the room was unresponsive, already a casualty of the fear that ARAMIS was spreading like a secondary infection. The other people who had been glancing over, their attention drawn by the professor’s rattling breaths, were now averting their eyes. But in any case, they were too far away to see his face, the heavy brow cresting with spasms. Elliot found he could not look away, though the sight was distressing. Keelan’s eyes had returned to their former glassiness.
Elliot sat down heavily and Keelan lolled across his lap, as though no longer moving under his own power. His head rested on Elliot’s thighs, his long beard fanning out like a skirt around the borders of his mask.
“Hang on, Professor,” said Elliot, tears smarting his eyes. The virus that held the professor in its grip was implacable, nature at its most terrible. Elliot had never felt less prepared to deal with an emergency that was right in front of him. He thought of Julia, far away and unaware of what was unfolding. All the sad, failing efforts of human beings who would never, ever get it right, whether they were trying or not. Everyone, no matter who they were or what they intended, left pain in their wake. There was enough hurt in the world to burn it down ten times over. It was delusional to think any individual could make a difference.
Keelan opened his mouth, but only a strained, scraping hiss emerged. And then he was gone and Elliot was shouting again, asking for help though he knew it was already too late.
October 17, 2020
Emma, my dear granddaughter,
As an Aslet, I’m sure you know that what some people believe to be inevitable is just that—a belief. Reality is very different. With sufficient funds, anything can be accomplished.
On that note, I have good news: you and Stuart have been pre-approved for Haven Archipelago! Haven is one of the oldest and most exclusive survival projects, and those of us who have been long-term investors enjoy certain privileges—such as extending invitations to family if space remains available. Though the current catastrophe has taken the world by surprise, many of us have been preparing for this sort of calamity for a long time.
I wrote to your parents, but they intend to “weather this storm” without me. Securing an invitation for your sister’s family could be trickier. I hear she married an Arab, though a wealthy one. Please encourage her to be in touch with me to discuss further.
Also, given your profile, I realize you and Stuart might be fielding invitations from other communities. Would you mind sharing the details? Haven is fantastic, but one always wonders if one is actually getting the best as promised—and paid for.
It’s a shame this can’t reach you any faster from our secure location, but we’ve had it on good authority that the old-fashioned kind of mail is ultimately harder to trace.
We haven’t had much of a relationship, I know, but let’s make up for lost time. I’d like to meet my newest great-grandchild.
Walt
P.S. Just to clarify, you and Stuart will still be responsible for all fees, etc. Hope to hear from you. W.
EMMA
NOVEMBER 2020
Emma can’t be sure if the barista loves or hates her. She thinks she would be fine with either—it’s just that she can’t tell, so it remains a ragged edge on the fabric of her day. A morning irritant, a blind spot. Another small failure.
“It’s my first