Until such time as a solution can be found, the presidential task force advises everyone to abide by the rules. Quarantine when possible. Socially distance when not. Wear a mask at all times.

Phone call between Sofia and her brother

SOFIA: Hey, it’s me.

LUCA: Wow.

SOFIA: Yeah. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to call you out of the blue, but—

LUCA: I like hearing from you. Are you okay? Is the plague there too?

LUCA: Lie to me if it is. I’d like to believe you’ll be safe.

SOFIA: You’re ridiculous.

SOFIA: Okay, no plague here. Everything is totally and completely fine, and we’re living like kings.

LUCA: Cool. That’s what I like to hear. No need to come bust you out then?

SOFIA: Nah, never. I’m good. We’ve got this.

LUCA: You don’t sound convincing.

SOFIA: You told me to lie.

LUCA: Fair enough.

SOFIA: So how are things on your side?

LUCA: Same old. There may be a lockdown, but that doesn’t mean everyone sits safely at home. I still take the bus every morning and every evening, and I’m hardly the only one. Still gotta produce food. Still gotta feed people. Still gotta care for them. They haven’t figured out how to handle that part without all of us yet. Lockdown might be great if we all lived in a future with replicators and emergency medical holograms and shit, but we’re not there yet.

SOFIA: Nerd.

LUCA: Watch it.

SOFIA: You’ll be careful though right? Can’t lose you too.

LUCA: You won’t be rid of me anytime soon.

LUCA: Your room is here waiting for you.

SOFIA: Good. I…I’d really like to come home. Soon. When I can.

LUCA: When the world goes back to normal again, right?

SOFIA: Right. That. When it does, beam me over or whatever you call it.

LUCA: Wow, ouch.

LUCA: I’ve missed you.

LUCA: It’s good to hear your voice. Promise me you’ll check in with me as much as you can?

SOFIA: I’ve missed you too, bro.

LUCA: Promise?

SOFIA: Yeah, of course. Always.

This phone call has been disconnected.

Burial rites for Chloe Hughes

You’d think I’d get better at this, but death doesn’t become any easier. Loss doesn’t become any easier. We never truly had a chance to meet, outside of recreation time and dinners. You scared me. I’m sorry for that.

You didn’t deserve this, Chloe. None of us did, and none of us do. But yours won’t be the last grave. Too many of us are sick. Too many of us are showing signs of sickness. So here we are. You won’t be alone. I don’t know if that’s a comfort.

I wish I had anything more hopeful or beautiful to say, but maybe this. The music I played before you fell ill was a part of Britten’s War Requiem. It’s not meant to be played by a single violin. No requiem is. It’s meant to be sung. It’s meant to be orchestrated. It’s meant to be beautiful and ethereal and guide the dead to a place of rest. This one is meant to be angry too, and that’s why I love it.