Casually, I nudge the backpack to the wall with my toe, just as “Cat’s in the Cradle” blares from Bandit’s cell phone.

He grimaces. “That’s my dad. I should take it. Sorry.”

He lets go of the paper and strides out of the room. Idly, I pick up the sheet. It appears to be a letter from Charlie.

I bite my lip. Should I read it? I don’t typically snoop, but if Charlie is my target, then the Voice—the very future—made his correspondence my business.

Decided, I skim the text, my eyes snagging on words like “contagious” and “infected.” Swallowing hard, I start at the beginning.

Dear Chubbs,

Allow me to share my vision with you. Imagine, if you will, an invisible agent that can infiltrate the human body.

I suppress a shudder. I can just imagine Charlie’s voice, smooth and strangely melodic. I wouldn’t be any more creeped out if he were standing next to me, whispering in my ear.

In the first stage, the agent interacts with your cells, changing them thoroughly and irrevocably, but with little symptoms, little harm. Creating exactly zero alarm. The victim experiences what they consider to be a mild cold. This highly contagious, airborne agent passes on to the next victim and then the next. Until most of the people in the state, the country, maybe even the world, are infected.

I’m vibrating like a timer. Holy Christmas flaming monkeys. He’s describing the virus. The one that will be invented ten years from now. And this letter is addressed to Bandit. Why? What can it mean?

This dormant period lasts anywhere between six months to a year. In the second stage, the virus alters the body’s cell, so that the victim is allergic—no, damn near defenseless—against a substance that used to pose little danger. A substance at once ubiquitous and necessary for our survival: the very sun. Chaos will ensue as people begin to drop like flies.

By the time the world’s leaders understand why, it will be too late. Half the world’s population will already be gone.

My lungs won’t fill. My breath comes faster and louder, like an ocean wave gaining momentum. I hoped for a clue, a subtle piece of information.

I didn’t expect an outright confession.

Of course, the crime to which he’s admitting has yet to occur. It won’t be committed for another ten years, by someone other than Charlie.

Someone who goes to my school.

Someone who could very well be the boy I was just kissing.

I sink to my knees next to the scattered papers. No, damn it. Bandit can’t be the Maker. He’s terrified of germs. Why on earth would he invent a virus?

Unless this very obsession leads to a study of viruses, something inside me whispers. Unless this research leads to the breakthrough that turns Charlie’s vision into reality.