“Emmaline?” I whisper. “Six days is not enough time for a disease to kill a whole city.” My heart races, and my palms against the steering wheel grow slick. When I was younger, the coronavirus seemed to last forever. And I’ve played the endemic scenario, Plague Inc., on my tablet like everyone else, but I wish I’d paid more attention in history class when we studied the Spanish flu. Or to my mom when she complained about flu season. Or anything. “It’s not enough time for everyone to get exposed and incubate a sickness. That would be impossible. Right?”

The more I think about it, the more I’m sure. In order for everyone to die so quickly, we all had to be exposed at exactly the same time.

“Oh, god, Emmaline.”

What if it wasn’t by chance that some new strain of deadly flu appeared to everyone all at once? What if we were exterminated?

I’ve always thought the suburb of Upper Arlington was too pristine, like a giant golf course dotted with sprawling ranch homes and perfectly behaved maples. I imagine it’s a place where people take tea and play bridge and go to the salon at least once a week, and as I drive through the silent, immaculate streets my impression does not change. It’s as if even death does not dare to defy the privileged wealthy who lived here.

Ravens dot the lawns, but they’re not as thick as in my neighborhood. The air is less muggy, with fewer flies. Maybe Upper Arlington had better ways to deal with the bodies, in the same way that they have better schools, better snowplows, better paychecks.

Or maybe not everyone here is dead. No, that’s naïve. Of course everyone is dead.

I’m wandering aimlessly, wasting what little gas is in the tank, not sure what I’m looking for. I steer into a cul-de-sac and hit the brakes. Above me, a giant sign stretches across the street, hanging from matching light posts. It says, WELCOME TO THE END OF THE WORLD BLOCK PARTY!

Beyond the sign is a haphazard collection of lounge chairs and coolers, garbage pails lined in black trash bags, and outdoor umbrellas. A charcoal grill lies belly-up, its tripod legs pointing toward me. A giant turkey vulture perches on the topmost leg.

I creep forward slowly. The vulture hops down from the grill and ambles away, giving my car the side-eye. The white tip of his beak is a sharp blade of bone. He settles on a lawn, which isn’t nearly far enough away to suit me.

I steer the car around the cooler and the grill. All my senses are afire. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Phantoms, maybe. It’s too quiet, too still, made even more so by all this evidence, right in the middle of the road, that life was so recent and so vibrant.