“One million. Kinda hard to fathom that number, yeah?” The president hailed from North Carolina and liked to deploy a friendly folksiness with all her y’alls and yonders, especially right before she flamed somebody to bits. Wally braced himself.

He wasn’t her target, however. “Christiane,” she called. On the screen at the tent hospital, Christiane jolted in her big suit, apparently not expecting the president of the United States to know her name or call her out. “Madam President?”

“Christiane, I’m sorry we missed your presentation earlier. Can you turn around for me?”

Christiane pivoted in a slow circle, keeping the tablet trained on her face.

“No, my apologies, Christiane, I mean, can you turn the camera around?”

Christiane complied. The rows and rows of cots came back into view.

“Walk forward for me, please.”

We all watched as the camera drew closer to the nearest row of cots. At first, to preserve some semblance of decorum, the people in charge of the tent hospitals had tried segregating the rows by gender and age. For whatever reason—biology or behavior or some combination of the two—men tended to die at higher rates than women, so there were many more men languishing in these beds. They’d stopped assigning rows on the basis of gender and age once they realized the inherent cruelty in separating couples. As appalling as it was to witness your loved one circling the drain right next to you, it was more appalling to picture them dying all alone in the midst of hundreds of people. Now whenever someone new came in, they got placed next to their family or friends, if they had any present. This row, however, appeared to be all men.

“Thank you, you can stop there. Can this gentleman speak?”

The camera lurched forward a bit, revealing a young man in an oxygen mask with his eyes closed. The visible portion of his face reflected the dusky cyanotic hue I’d come to associate with imminent death. Sweat gleamed at his temples. His breathing, even over the oxygen mask, sounded in sonorous, irregular bursts.

“I think he’s asleep, Madam President.”

“Don’t wake him up. Go on to the next one.”

The next man appeared to be conscious, but barely. A reedy man in his thirties or forties, he lay unmoving save for his chest, which puffed in and out far too fast. He too had an oxygen mask clamped to his face, but his eyes fluttered open and closed. Christiane brought the camera closer to him.

“Hold it so he can see me,” commanded the president.

“Sir,” said Christiane to the man. “I have President Corbett here. She’d like to speak with you.”

“Oh, sure . . .” said the man, managing, even in his weakened state, to roll his eyes a little. As Christiane lowered the tablet and he caught sight of the people on the screen, his eyes flew all the way open.