The Nevada Rapid Vaccine Production Target calls for 15,000 doses of vaccine to be prepared for emergency workers within ten hours. However, a worker inside SynthLab’s Carson City facility has claimed that precursor compounds had spoiled inside damaged refrigeration units, and that vaccine production had still not begun fifteen hours after the British released the manufacturing process.

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Matt sprawled on a sofa, dressed in tie-dyed polo and camo shorts. Banners scrolled on a twenty-four-hour news channel, but the volume was off and he was studying a glossy book titled Sara Channing’s Photo Bombs.

‘I’ve never seen this before,’ Matt said, raising the book as Harry strode in, wearing a black running shirt and boxer briefs.

The open page was a picture taken with a Congolese sniper, sixty feet up a tree.

‘Your ma was hardcore,’ Matt told Harry. ‘It says she spent two nights up in the tree with this guy while he shot and killed at least six people. And they had to stay in position, not even coming down to use the toilet.’

‘She was young too,’ Harry said, still loving the shiner Lana had given his best friend.

‘How come I’ve never seen this book before?’ Matt asked.

‘That’s the first edition,’ Harry said. ‘They released an expanded edition after mum died, with more photos and a foreword by some BBC newsreader who Kirsten reckons my mum couldn’t stand. But the original is worth a bit to photo-book collectors, so don’t go getting the pages all sticky when you see the topless tribeswomen.’

Matt laughed. ‘What made you get it out?’

‘Puts our current situation in perspective,’ Harry said, shrugging. ‘Speaking of, you mostly wear black. Is there a long-sleeve black shirt I can borrow?’

‘Several,’ Matt said. ‘Not sure if they’ll stretch over your freakishly mutated body, but you’re welcome to try.’

‘Cheers,’ Harry said.

‘You’re really going out there?’

‘I often ask what my mum would do in certain situations,’ Harry said. ‘But I took one look at the photos in that book and I knew exactly what she’d do.’

Harry found a slate-grey shirt in Matt’s closet that was only a little tight. Back in his own room, he put on black jogging bottoms and pushed his feet into Nike running shoes, on which he’d meticulously blacked out all the reflective parts with a Sharpie. Then he turned to the gear laid out on the bed.

He’d decided to take his cell in case of emergency, but would leave it switched off. The cops could easily track the location of a phone, and during a quarantine they might be hunting any device with a signal that moved around.