A smallish white man in black spectacles was speaking, “We don’t know what it is, how it’s spread. What if we carry it with us, if it’s in us? What if we infect other places?” He had a long bright red beard, dark green eyes. Dune knew his face, even his work, but couldn’t bring to mind his name. “We don’t know enough about it. We don’t know the incubation period. We don’t know if it’s like typhoid, with carriers who don’t get sick themselves. It is absolutely a tragedy what is happening here—and we don’t want to compound that tragedy by unknowingly spreading the disease to other places.”

Elouise turned to face him, arms spread wide like wings, as if preparing to dive bomb into his soft belly. “What if we don’t, Matt? What if this violent act of imprisoning us in a place where we know people are dying just leads to the death of the majority of this city? This Black city! Because guess what, I love you, but other than you most of the white folk left immediately! Indian Village? Empty. Boston-Edison? Empty. Midtown? Empty! The Westin is empty! Did they infect New York, LA, Martha’s Vineyard, wherever the heck they went? No! It’s just us, in here, in the only place we know for sure we can get sick!”

Several people in the room clapped at Elouise’s words, Black and Brown hands solid against each other, faces stern and stubborn. Even though they lacked the power to stop the syndrome, it was galvanizing to feel right.

“And don’t think we can’t see that it’s activists disproportionately getting sick, people who have been here and fought and bled for this city. We in this room are about all that’s left of the movement folk. That’s an accident? No! Let us out of here!”

There had been so many ways the city was abandoned before this. Many of the people in the room were the reason there was still a Detroit worth its salt. There was Rhodesia Clarke, who had been heading up Black efforts for climate justice throughout the city; Hoka Watkins, a racial justice educator and adversary-comrade of Mama Vivian’s. The women over sixty were all Mama something unless they were queer or white.

As a teenager Dune had worked alongside Elouise for years, volunteering on water rights campaigns under Kama’s wing. Dune trusted Elouise’s judgment, and felt moved by her presence.