No one responds; it’s too noisy. The clatter of dozens of conversations bounces off the walls and mingles with the woodsmoke, everyone gesturing, raising their voices, laughing with the kind of full-throated exaggeration you see only at parties and when your boss tells a lame joke. I battle a wave of nausea.

“Settle down, y’all,” she tries, waving her hands back and forth in a wimpy arc in front of her chest. Still, nothing. For a moment I hold on to the hope that I’m off the hook, but then the hostess raises two fingers to her lips and releases a wolf whistle that could compete with a lumberjack. This does the trick; conversation ceases and a few people clap, impressed that tiny Dahlia—that’s her name, Dahlia—knows how to whistle like that. Against my will, I’m impressed too.

“Ah,” says Dahlia, “that’s more like it.” She launches into a little speech about scientists and the CDC and Giving for the Greater Good, which comes across as sincere but a little too slick. I scan the faces in the room—a group of polished, bejeweled, attractive women and polished, hearty, healthy men—and wonder: how many of them lost someone?

Dahlia hands over the reins, and the attention of the crowd shifts to me. My friends hover near the front: Compton expressionless, brandishing a martini like a shield; Vani attentive and sparkly-eyed; Hannah, her fingers fidgeting with the pearly top button of her dress, wearing a look of nervous encouragement that paradoxically drains my confidence. I focus instead on a florid-faced older gentleman in a green blazer; his bloated air of disengagement somehow bolsters my ability to refocus.

Dahlia, the hostess, has already inflicted my résumé upon the crowd, so I don’t bother with my credentials. I also don’t bother to mention that I’d left the CDC in disgrace. It’s still an organization I value.

“I’m here to speak to you tonight about the language of disease,” I say. “Hearing this, you might be suspicious I’m going to inflict upon you a painful mess of Latin suffixes and incomprehensible, ten-syllable microbial classifications—and your suspicion is not misplaced. There’s some science in the stuff we do, of course. I happen to dig that shit, but that makes sense, given what I do for a living.”

From those who are listening, a bit of confusion, followed by uneasy laughter at my cursing. People are still chatting and drinking and checking their phones in corners of the room, although many of the people nearest to me appear intent on my words. I address the next comments to them.