you every so often,” she said, “it started to feel like something was wrong when you weren’t there.”
“It’s nice to hear your voice.” Elliot took his glass of water and sat down in the chair he’d pushed over to the window. “What’s up?”
“I’m helping to supervise a clinical trial.”
“A new drug already? That’s fast.”
“Not fast enough. The antivirals we have now cost a fortune and they don’t work on everybody.” There was a tinny echo to her voice, as though she was on speakerphone. “This could be the best hope some of these patients have.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Elliot. She sounded prickly, which made sense after what she’d been through in the press. “I hope it goes well.”
“Remind me how many weeks you were working with potential ARAMIS exposure?”
“One week at the hospital. Seven weeks on quarantine relief.”
“And you said you were in quarantine yourself before that?”
“Yes, for three weeks.” It was becoming apparent this was not a social call.
“What for?” she asked. He could hear a rustling sound, like papers being shuffled on a desk. “Can you describe your exposure?”
Elliot watched an ambulance speeding by on the street below. “Do you remember how it started? And where?”
“That restaurant on the Lower East Side,” said Keisha.
“Go on,” he said.
She took a breath, as though beginning a well-practised recitation. “Mr. Zhihuan Tsiang, the index patient, a visiting martial arts expert from China, infected everyone at his table, all members of a local gym. Mr. Tsiang died in China two days later, and the eight others developed symptoms within the week. All were dead within three weeks of the dinner, and six spread ARAMIS to their families.” The timeline had been rehashed in news story after news story. “It came out later that Mr. Tsiang also infected a taxi driver, a hotel clerk, and the hostess of the restaurant, who continued to infect other staff members.” He could hear a tapping sound: her forefinger on the desk, a tattoo of the dead. “Mr. Tsiang was what we call a super-spreader.”
Another ambulance drove by with its siren on.
“Keisha, I was there,” said Elliot, when the sound stopped. “At the dinner with Mr. Tsiang.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was.”
“No,” said Keisha with some firmness. “We traced everyone at the dinner. And everyone working at the restaurant. And everyone who paid for a meal by credit or debit card. I would have remembered seeing your name. The only one we couldn’t find was the ARAMIS Girl.”
“It was just for a minute, but I was there. I told all of this to the Department of Health when I called in.”
“Well, okay then,” said Keisha. “A minute.”
“I sat down. I shook people’s hands. I drank directly from Jejo Galang’s glass. He was sitting next to Mr. Tsiang.”
Keisha’s voice was quiet. “Jejomar Galang died.”
“I know,” said Elliot. “He was a friend of mine.”
“So you went into quarantine,” she said. “And you’ve been fine this whole time.”
“Yeah, fine.” It was a version of the truth. He’d doubted every decision he’d ever made, questioned whether his survival was a kind of punishment, and spent more time than he could ever have imagined considering matters of chance and fate. But still: he was alive. “I’m totally fine.”
The sound of a door opening and a distant voice cut in on Keisha’s end: “Dr. Delille? The patient’s family has some concerns about the release form.”
There was more rustling and some muffled conversation. “Sorry,” said Keisha, returning. “I need to finish some paperwork to get the drug trial started. Can you come in tomorrow and let me take a blood sample?”
“Sure,” said Elliot.
“Tomorrow, okay? If what you say is true, I don’t want to lose track of you.”
When Elliot hung up, he flipped on the television and saw Keelan Gibbs giving an interview. He looked older than Elliot remembered him, but not by much. Pale forehead, ruddy cheeks, limpid blue eyes. Had surely refused makeup. The professor actually stroked his long, white beard before commenting, “The only way a pandemic can be stopped is through international cooperation.” Elliot clicked the TV off again. Then he turned on his computer and sent a message to Sarah and Noah. Their regular phone calls had been replaced with emails since they’d gone to sea. Sarah had a fair amount of time to write, and since they were being careful about putting ashore, she was limited in her company.
Hi guys. Thanks for the update. I printed out that last photo of Noah and put it inside my