“My skin hurts when you touch it.”

“I’m sorry, Roar,” I said, yanking my hands away. “I’m going to call your doctor, okay? They have these kits we can get so I can take care of you here.”

Rorie’s eyes fluttered. Lately, some of puberty’s physical cruelty had afflicted her; to her dismay, her chin broke out, and her nose, once so dainty, seemed to have lengthened and widened a bit, even as the angle of her jaw had flattened. It did not matter. I suppose every parent feels the same conviction when they regard their child: no matter their physical imperfections, nothing on earth could ever be as precious, as wholesome and fragile and exquisite, as your child in repose. The flushed stillness of those sweet features; the utter and absolute dearness of that little face.

I made Rorie drink some chicken broth—the medicine of the ages—and a sports drink, and then sat with her until she grew drowsy, clenching my fists to keep myself from stroking her hair. Once she seemed deeply asleep, I made a flurry of phone calls and texts, planning my strategy should Rorie get worse. In only a day or two, the artiovirus had gone exponential. The closest tent hospital, with room for hundreds of patients, could no longer accept more, and wouldn’t accept a minor alone, in any case. Many of the hospitals prioritized children, but they too neared capacity for caring for the critically ill. I needed to keep Rorie well enough to stay home.

After a moment’s hesitation, I called Wally to apologize for bailing on the meeting.

“Kiki, it’s fine, I’ll fill you in,” he said. In the background, I could hear the muted chatter of voices; he’d gone in to work, then. “The epi teams are churning, as you might expect. The news that the plague has reached our figurative house may be freaking out the press, but it’s bringing out the best in our people.”

“The plague has reached my literal house,” I told him. “Rorie is sick.”

Silence.

“Wally?”

“I’m coming over,” he shouted. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. What do you need?”

“Wally, no. You haven’t been sick; I have. Unless she gets worse, I’m taking care of her here. We have a home kit coming; she’ll have oxygen and I’ll be able to monitor her. I can even give her IV fluids if I need to.”

“Kira, I—”

“I promise I’ll call you the instant anything changes. You have my word.”

His voice took on the raspy tinge it always did when he got overwrought. “How is Beau?”

I froze. Unlike Rorie, Beau tended to be an early riser, bouncing awake all full of seven-year-old vigor, eager to see what fresh excitement the day held. He seldom slept past seven; eight at the absolute latest.

I pulled out my phone. It was 8:42.