The door to the hall nudged open, revealing a human form silhouetted against the bright hall. At first I thought the figure was another figment from the depths of my overtaxed subconscious, but then the person tiptoed into the room, heading toward me. In any other era—in any normal hospital stay—it would be routine to have interruptions all through the night. People checking vital signs, people adjusting medication drips, people drawing morning labs at infernally early hours. But now the hospital took what precautions it could to protect its workers, limiting intrusions and requiring extensive disinfecting protocols for those entering and leaving the room. From the station in the middle of the hall, the staff could monitor the children, sending in respiratory therapists or nurses only if necessary. Blood draws were as limited as possible.

The figure making its way into the room was wearing a regular mask with a clear panel. As it neared me in the half-light, it took on the specific features of a man: shaggy dark hair, straight eyebrows, a broad face dominated by cheekbones elevated in a permanent smile.

Mike Zhou.

Warily, I regarded him. “No filter-cartridge mask?”

“No.” He slashed a hand into the air for emphasis. “I usually wear it to reassure people, but, you know, the virus—it did its best against me and failed. They tell me I have the most robust antibody response the lab has seen.”

I nodded. “I had a good antibody response too.”

“We are lucky,” he said. “It makes me very popular around here. I do many of the nursing tasks.”

“From what I understand, you weren’t hurting for popularity before this.”

“Yes, very true. I am the most popular man.” His default grin grew larger. I could see why he enjoyed a reputation as both a child and parent charmer.

I gestured toward the hall. “You’re on call tonight?”

“I am not,” he said, “on call. I sleep here now, while things are so bad. My ICU colleagues, Drs. Joshi, Marsh, and Crosthwaite, they do not have immunity, so for now I hold down the fort as much as possible. We all work,” he added, trying to stave off any protest, “but I do not have a wife or children and I do have the antibodies, so . . .” Another room-lighting grin. “This floor is my temporary home.”

“Mike,” I said. “That must be brutal.”

“Pffft,” he said. “For the families, yes; very brutal. The little patients, they make the heart ache. But it is the nature of the job. You fight the good fight.”

“Yes,” I agreed, but at the same time I shook my head. Was Mike Zhou the most resilient man on earth, or had his experience loosened some fundamental screw?

“Ah, now,” he said. “I come to talk to you about the children. Beau and Rorie. I happened to be awake, and, forgive me, I thought you might be too.”