by the lab. I’m here now.”
* * *
—
At the hospital, there were no officers that he could see, only a new contingent of garbed personnel in white vests marked VOLUNTEER telling people where to go. In spite of himself, his eyes were drawn to the sign overhead pointing the way to Emergency, where Keelan had died while Elliot sat by helplessly and watched. His own breathing went shallow as it had that day, not only to avoid contagion, but as if in taking in less oxygen himself there would have been more for the professor’s struggling lungs. With an effort, Elliot forced himself to breathe deeply. He didn’t have to go back there today. The woman who directed him up to Keisha’s lab was friendly, energetic. Her nametag said ROSA. The bright lights gave her an incandescent glow, rather than the green, deadish cast they imparted to his own skin. He asked her how things were going.
“Better now. Best week since I started.” She stopped to direct someone else then turned back to him. “Still over capacity, but things have slowed down. They say infections are on the decline.”
He opted for the stairs, realizing he’d come to fear the city more from a distance, in the hypothetical, than he ever had up close. He’d listened to his parents, watched too much of the news, let his own exhaustion and paranoia do their worst. But in spite of this realization, he found his pace lagging as he mounted the steps. What had happened in the ARAMIS ward was not mere rumour or catastrophizing, but death itself: ravenous, indiscriminate, dehumanizing. Without mercy. He ought to be running in the other direction instead of returning to the place where he had witnessed more blood, rage, and blind grief than at any crime scene. But once his feet brought him to the right doors and he pushed his way through, he found that the ward, too, was not as he had left it. There were more of the white-vest volunteers; many were sitting and talking with people in the waiting area. At the nursing station, he asked for Keisha.
“She’s doing rounds on another floor, but she’ll be up soon.” The nurse pointed him towards a smaller waiting room. Inside, there was a young woman sitting alone. Narrow shoulders, glossy black hair curtaining her cheeks. Dressed all in black, right down to her face mask, she sat rigidly at the end of the row of chairs. She was wholly given over to waiting: no phone, no magazine. A defiant chin, wary eyes, small graceful hands folded in her lap. He recognized first the familiar, overwhelming urge to impress her.
“I think I know you,” he said.
“You and the rest of the planet,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her forehead was pinched, eyes shadowed. The slightly diminished face of the ARAMIS survivor. “Sorry, I don’t do selfies.”
“No, from the restaurant,” said Elliot, as the recollection turned and clicked. This was ARAMIS Girl.
Surprise softened her brow. “You’re the cop.”
“You remember me.” It was his turn to be surprised.
The young woman didn’t sound quite as friendly. “I assumed you were dead.”
“Not yet,” he said. “I’m Elliot.”
“Xiaolan.” Then, inexplicably, “But you can call me Ed.”
Outside in the hallway, there was a passing clatter of rolling carts and raised voices. Elliot flinched, and reached for conversation to cover it. “So where were you all that time? You must have known people were looking for you.”
From the way Ed’s face darkened, he knew it was the wrong question. “More like stalking me. And I wasn’t even sick then.” She almost spat it out. “Not till way later. It was all a fabrication, a media sideshow.”
“You decided to come forward, though.”
“No. That was my parents.” Her voice was flat. “They’re so privileged they still believe that the truth will set you free.”
“You don’t agree?” He kept his comment light, put a smile into it. “I’ve found it to be fairly freeing of late.”
She wasn’t impressed. “I guess authority makes sense to them because it’s always been on their side.” Her brow furrowed a little more.
“Parents have an unfortunate habit of being opinionated, don’t they?” he said. Then quickly added, “Mine certainly are.” He wanted to commiserate, not condescend, but he worried he’d left room for doubt. There might be fifteen years between them, maybe more.
Her chin jutted up and then down, appraising. At last she seemed to take his efforts for what they were, a sincere attempt to put