She would take these sick humans home with her as facts, descriptions, words, locations and dates. She would walk into her home, hang her coat in the hall, slide out of her boots; and check on her grandmother, changing the diapers, wiping the shit, refilling the screwdriver mug, and kissing the forehead. Then she would descend to the basement to create memorials, just as she’d done for Kama. She would make a little sign for each person and place it in her father’s model of the city, as close as she could get to the place they had become sick.

She had almost four hundred names now. Hardly a tenth of the total crisis. She wouldn’t forget them, she wouldn’t let them simply disappear.

Dune was hungover again, slowly heading down the stairs. It wasn’t a good biking day when her head felt like this. She waved two fingers at Bab, who was dropping off a loaf of homemade bread on the table, then storing a tin of fresh butter in the fridge. Bab nodded amicably and made her way upstairs.

Bab was visiting daily now. Dune tried to be away or in the basement. She was grateful for Mama Vivian to have some company, grateful for the extra hands giving her grandmother care. But she didn’t want the small talk, didn’t need it.

She was pretty sure it helped Bab more than anyone else. She came, cried and yelled to Mama Vivian about the crisis and what she imagined Mama Vivian might think about it. Dune listened until she heard the one-sided rhythm of sound. Bab was great at filling the space with Vivian, as if she had stored up small stories her entire life. Dune slipped down into the basement, wanting to be quiet, alone. She had to add the week’s names to the model and wanted to find a way to keep track of the houses she still needed to follow up on. Creating systems was beginning to feel as comforting to her as smoking weed, it was something tangible and instantaneous, something reliable.

After a couple of hours, Dune came back up, pleased with her map for the next day’s investigation. She made herself a slice of bread slathered in the fresh butter, realizing it was her first food of the day. She cut off another slice and ate it as she stood at the bottom of the stairs. When she was sure she didn’t hear anything, she climbed the stairs to check on Mama Vivian.

Her grandmother was laying there with terror in her eyes. Bab was sitting in the guest chair on the far side of the bed, staring off at the wall, her face gone to torment, tears dripping in a soft swinging motion from her petite pointed chin and damp in her sparse locs.