Was this the end of New York? No, it couldn’t possibly be. Some people infected with the virus didn’t even get sick. Look at her and her friends: after the Tarifa ferry, almost one month ago, they’d been sent back to Spain and isolated. Compton herself, who’d presumably been exposed to the highest viral load, had barely become ill. She’d been fatigued and achy, with a bit of a raspy cough, and that was it. Kira, who’d also had some contact with a sick person, had been moderately sick, with high fevers, headaches, and mild shortness of breath, and Hannah, who’d also had contact with a sick person, had never gotten sick at all. Neither had Kira’s boyfriend or her children. Georgia hadn’t seemed to be affected much either, other than a headache. But Vani had been hospitalized; she’d had pneumonia and a seizure and had barely escaped being placed on a ventilator. By some miracle, none of them had died.

Compton tore herself away from thoughts of her friends, none of whom she’d spoken to in weeks. “How are the children?” she asked.

Mildred’s voice took on a tinge of wariness, probably because in ordinary times, Compton forbade the watching of screens during the day. Since Ellis’s death, however, their routines had shattered. Compton was too frightened for them to leave the house, even to visit the park, so they spent their days in stunned solitude, resisting Mildred’s exhortations to try a puzzle or an art project or a board game.

“They’re okay,” she said. “They didn’t want to do anything, so we spent the day on the couch looking at the TV. Baby Walter played a little bit in his bouncy thing, but Rose and Lawrence, they just wanted to cuddle up to me.”

A burning ache rose in Compton’s throat. Her poor babies. No father, and now barely any mother. She wanted nothing more than to quit her job and be the one to nuzzle her bewildered, traumatized children on the couch all day, but if she did that, even more people would die, and then some other children somewhere in the city would find themselves without a daddy too. “That’s fine, Mildred,” she heard herself say gently. “Of course, that’s fine. Thank you so much for being there for them. Kiss them and tell them I’ll be home soon, all right?”

“I will,” said Mildred, her voice thickening. “You be safe coming home.”

12

The Shortest President in American History

HANNAH

SAN DIEGO

Eighty-One Days After Patient Zero

Hannah straightened her posture and gripped the steering wheel, focusing on driving. It wasn’t a bad commute: the journey from her hillside home in Del Mar to the hospital where she practiced clocked in at under fifteen minutes if traffic cooperated.