When I’m satisfied that the cut no longer bleeds, I rub Neosporin all over it and let her go. I stand to rinse the bloody towel, expecting her to lick all the Neosporin off, but she sits at my feet while I work, content to wait until I notice her again.

I dry my hands on a third dish towel—I’m going through towels fast—then slather the back of my hand with more Neosporin. The swelling might be going down already, but I can’t be sure. I grab a granola bar from the pantry. While I chew, I rummage through the “miscellaneous drawer” for a pen and something to write on. I discover a small spiral notebook and carry it along with the crank lantern back to the couch. Emmaline hops up beside me. I give a fleeting thought to her paw staining the couch before deciding it doesn’t matter.

I have accomplished something, even if it’s just wiping down a dirty dog and removing a glass shard. It makes me feel a little braver, a little stronger. Maybe I can start asking the hard questions.

I write, How many people got sick?

The flu hit very fast. The last day I attended school, every class had missing students. The principal was debating whether or not to call off school for the next day. A few people had already died in the Cleveland area—mostly the very old, the very young, and those with preexisting conditions—and health professionals were encouraging everyone to wear face masks. When local airports started shutting down to prevent the bug from spreading, I remember being glad that Ohio is a smallish state, area-wise. All the teams would still be able to drive to the tournament, with the airlines closed.

What a selfish thought.

For six days, I was comatose. Six days. But my family was fine when I left the dinner table that night, which means they sickened and died in less time. So it kills quickly. Maybe too quickly for the disease to spread.

Could I be in some kind of quarantine area? Every scary movie I’ve seen rushes through my head. I imagine men in hazmat suits driving camouflage jeeps, Uzis hanging over their shoulders.

I write: Quarantine?

I need information. I can’t turn on the television or computer without electricity. We used to have a crank radio, until Ryan broke it. The only way to find out what’s happening beyond my neighborhood is get in the car and start driving.

The car! It has a radio.

I leap to my feet, dropping pen and paper, and rush over to the kitchen and snatch Mom’s car keys from the counter. Emmaline follows at my heels as I dash through the laundry room to the garage.