her a few times during his week at the hospital, and she often stopped to chat for a minute or two. He wondered if she felt as he did, that it was a balm to see someone from days gone by.
“How goes the battle?” he asked. He could read the stress of the past two months in the lines on her brow. Keisha had come under fire, first for the panic that arose after she released the photo of ARAMIS Girl, and then for the nationwide rash of hate crimes against Asian Americans that followed. So far, Methodist Morningside had stood behind her, but he could only imagine how devastated she must be.
“It’s going okay,” said Keisha. “We’re working on developing a new drug with a few international labs.”
They paused while a couple with two children burst into the lobby, looking frantic. The little girl was carrying a battered Elmo doll and the mother was crying. Elliot stepped forward and redirected them to the emergency triage at the Children’s Pavilion.
“You know,” said Keisha, “this is one of the most infectious places on the planet right now. Just walking through here could make you sick.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Then you’re an idiot.” She shook her head. “It’s so weird to be seeing you all the time now,” she said. “Come on, let’s not stand here.” He followed her out a side door leading to a small loading zone. A No Smoking sign the size of a shopping cart was mounted on the wall. “I feel better talking outside. Fewer germs.”
“I thought this was the best hospital.” He flinched as the door slammed shut behind them.
“Well, it is,” said Keisha. “A prognosis here is better than anywhere else. We have protocols and we know how to use them. We’ve drilled. We have isolation rooms with separate ventilation. And we have more respirators than staff at this point.” She looked proud but defensive. “We’ve had the most cases but also the most survivors.”
“It’s heroic, what you’re doing,” he said, and meant it. “Oh, hey. Here. A parting gift.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a mini box of Milk Duds, their gloved fingertips briefly touching along the side of the package. “After today, with any luck, I’ll be on curfew duty.”
“I’m sorry you got assigned here,” she said, slipping the candy into her lab coat. “We’ve had a few of your guys admitted, as I’m sure you know.”
“I’m not worried,” he said again, raising his voice a little to be heard over a passing ambulance with its siren blaring.
“Is this some sort of male invincibility complex? Because if so, spare me.”
“Not at all,” said Elliot. “Right before this rotation, I did seven weeks of quarantine relief. And before that, I was in quarantine myself.”
“Really.” Keisha raised an eyebrow. “Not many people would knowingly put themselves at risk after that.”
“Well, that’s the job, isn’t it?” His shrug was a little self-conscious. “You know what it is to serve, too.”
The door behind them opened with a clang as two nurses came out, cigarettes in gloved hands.
“I should go,” said Keisha. She was looking at him oddly, as though he were displaying some symptom she couldn’t quite diagnose. “Take care of yourself, Elliot.”
* * *
After two days off, Elliot and Russ moved to the evening curfew patrol, as Russ had hoped. Away from the surging mortal fears of the hospital, the shift went by quickly. Until it was gone, Elliot hadn’t realized the psychic burden of bearing witness to so much panic and grief. For the most part, people stayed off the streets. Elliot and Russ issued warnings and tried without enthusiasm to disperse the homeless, who had nowhere else to go but wanted to avoid what they saw as certain infection in the shelters.
When he got home, Elliot found a strange comfort in turning off his lights and opening the blinds. There was enough of a glow from the city for him to see his way around the apartment, though the nights were nowhere near as bright as they used to be. No more rivers of red tail lights slowing at the intersections, or white headlights blazing through in the other direction. Just streetlamps and neon signs and billboards illuminated by spotlights, because not even a plague could slow down corporate interests. As he poured himself a glass of water in the semi-dark, his phone rang.
“Keisha,” he said. They’d exchanged numbers, but he’d never expected to hear from her.
“I got so used to seeing