“Are you in the lab?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, the same upbeat note present in his voice. “We’ve all been going in to test Humpy against the new strain.” Declan’s researchers affectionately referred to the newly modified nanobody as Humpy, since camelids were utilized by the specialized company they employed to challenge the animals. “Humpy” as a name for a potential medical breakthrough may have lacked dignity, but at least their first attempt at a nickname—Camel Toe—hadn’t stuck. I knew he couldn’t have results yet—it took ninety days to get the animals boosted and then another intricate process to isolate the RNA, sequence it, clone it, and encode it into a vector. Why was he so happy?

His next statement answered that question. “We haven’t formalized it yet,” he said, “but we’re in with the university.”

Declan had long desired an academic partnership. There were some disadvantages, but also improved resources, chief among them that they’d have access to a biosafety level 3 lab.

“Do they already have samples?”

“Not yet,” he said. “We’re still waiting to get more. You’ve still got the original I gave you, yeah?”

“I do.”

“Hang on to it,” he said. “It could save someone’s life someday.”

“You’re being careful,” I said, offering this as a statement.

“ ’Course,” he said, and then, to someone else, “Not there, that one’s full, you dense eejit.” Back into the phone: “Of course we are. We’re going to hand over the fun stuff to the BSL-3 guys in a week or so, but we’ve got plenty keeping us busy now. Except for Sam here; he’s truly hopeless.” In the background, roars of laughter; there were at least several people with him, then. “But you can appreciate it: we’ve got to keep working.”

“Dec,” I said, suspicious, “did you take your mask off to talk to me?”

He’d shifted the subject then, still dodgy a moment later when I attempted to pin down the specifics of what he was working on. He asked about the kids and offered to be on the next plane to Atlanta if we needed anything—as soon as the world normalized again—and told me in his most seductive voice that he missed me—ah, Declan!—and then: nothing. Total radio silence. The days ticked by without hearing from him. He didn’t answer messages. This was so unlike him that even at work the anxiety over his well-being rubbed at the margins of my thoughts, eroding my equilibrium to the point where I questioned my ability to do my job. Surely—surely he hadn’t died, right? Wouldn’t someone from his lab have told me? But maybe not: who thinks to notify an ex-girlfriend in an emergency, no matter how closely they’ve stayed in touch?

“Dec,” I said now, answering his call. “Where the hell have you been?”

There was a silence. Then, a woman’s voice: “I’m sorry, is this Kira Marchand?”

Something vicious launched itself at my chest. It bored into me, stealing my breath.