They rode in an old Land Rover, Avery behind the wheel, Desmond beside her, facing the back seat, explaining what they’d found to Peyton and her father.

“It’s a relief camp. They take in anyone displaced by natural disasters: hurricanes, floods, drought, earthquakes. They take some folks who’ve just fallen on hard times, too. Their focus is getting people back on their feet.”

“Do you think they tested the cure here?” Peyton asked.

“I doubt it. You’ll see.”

“Do you know anyone there?” William asked.

Desmond cocked his head, surprised by the question. “I do. The woman running it. Charlotte. In 1983, my family passed away during the Ash Wednesday bushfires. Charlotte was one of the relief workers who helped in the aftermath. She… took care of me, helped find my uncle and get me to America.”

“Have you spoken with her since then?” William asked.

Desmond thought for a moment. “Not that I know of. But it’s possible.”

“Did she recognize you?”

“Yeah. She did.”

William stared out the window, the wheels turning in his head. “Interesting.”

The camp wasn’t high-tech. It was optimized to stretch every dollar to feed as many mouths and shelter as many lives as possible. The only advanced piece of medical equipment was an old X-ray machine, donated by the Royal Adelaide Hospital. Peyton insisted on using it on her father’s leg. He protested as he limped to the corrugated iron building, wincing every time his foot hit the ground.

“This really isn’t necessary, Peyton.”

“It really is, Dad.”

Desmond and Avery found Charlotte in her office, tapping at her cell phone. They kept their distance and made no physical contact. Peyton had expressed serious reservations about entering the camp at all—she still didn’t know how the virus was transmitted from person to person—but Desmond and William had argued that their need for information was more important than quarantine. They had to take some risks. Ultimately Peyton conceded, on the condition that the four of them remain in the building and avoid interacting with any camp residents other than Charlotte and her second-in-command.

Charlotte motioned them in, and Desmond and Avery sat across from her in a pair of ’70s-style wood and cloth chairs that had probably been salvaged from an old government building.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“No. Internet still routes to the AussieCordon website. I check twice a day to be sure.” She set the device aside. “Did you find your friends?”

Desmond nodded, told her about the X-ray.

“I’m glad we could help. It’s about all we have around here. Broken bones are by far the most common injury we see.” She paused. “And some burns.”