Given that I myself had contracted this virus, the idea was unsettling.

After they left, I started to speak, but Wally cut me off.

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions, okay? Don’t bring this up in the task force meeting yet; we’ll either sound like fools or we’ll scare the shit out of everybody.” He paused, presumably to consider the consequences of scaring the shit out of the members of the task force; some of these people were tiptoeing along a mighty fine trip wire these days. “Or both. Give Erica and Hai time to investigate and then we’ll bump it up the chain. If we need to.”

We settled back in, Wally returning to whatever he’d been doing before and me typing notes about the Facebook posts. At eight o’clock, I excused myself to walk back to my office so I could hammer out a quick call to the kids in private before our task force meeting.

Pre-pandemic, I’d had an arrangement with an older neighbor, Mrs. Biskup, to come in on the mornings when I had to leave early. Naturally, the children referred to her as Mrs. Biscuit and adored both her and the literal biscuits she baked for them. When the virus hit the nation, Atlanta had barely been affected compared to the hardest-hit cities, but Mrs. Biskup, whose mother had died in the influenza pandemic of 1968, professed herself too terrified to leave her apartment, even with one of the new antiviral masks. This was both understandable and prudent but left me with no childcare during the busiest professional time in my life.

It was less than ideal, but Rorie was now in charge of getting herself and Beau up and dressed. Their school had gone virtual for the duration, but I still insisted they rise before eight, eat, brush their teeth, and get semi-dressed every school morning.

“Hello, Ray of Sunshine,” I said to a scowling Rorie. “What time is your first class?”

“Eight thirty,” said Rorie. She fluttered her eyelashes dramatically. Good; Beau’s first-grade class also went online at that time. They’d be occupied until I could arrive home near noon to check on them.

Speaking of Beau . . . “Where’s Beau?”

Rorie yawned and stood, then padded toward the hallway. “I don’t know.”

“Well, did you wake him up?”

Rorie’s eyes fluttered again. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you woke him up?”

“Beau!” bellowed Rorie, so loudly I flinched. “Wake up, Mom’s on the phone.”

“Rorie? Are you just now getting out of bed? Don’t you have a test today?”

Rorie turned her head, revealing a diagonal sleep line running across her flushed cheek. She’d definitely just woken up. “Mom, you need to chill. It’s homeschool.”

I could hear the ticking of our grandfather clock in the living room, followed by a pattering of feet, growing louder by the second. Rorie’s phone jerked and Beau’s face appeared, framed by wild, luscious curls. “Hi, Mommy!”

“Hi, Beau.”