“Graham,” Cohen pointed to the newspaper dispenser behind them. “You made the local news here too.”

The headline of the Philadelphia Inquirer read: CANADIAN DOC USES PHILADELPHIA DRUG TO BEAT SUPERBUG. Kilburn sighed. News of MRGAS and Oraloxin dominated the front page of every newspaper he’d seen people reading on the flight. And Ellen Horton’s role was no longer anonymous. The same black-and-white photo—her blank stare might have been pulled from a driver’s license or passport—ran beside most of the articles. Though she was unavailable for comment and SeptoMed had not given a press release, the media had already begun the process of deifying Horton. Nobel Prize speculation was rampant for the “young genius.” Kilburn’s feelings were mixed. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone in the press would try to topple their new idol, and he doubted Ellen would cope well with the media scrutiny.

Kilburn dug in his pocket for his phone. He stepped away from the taxi stand and dialed Horton’s direct line at work and then her home, only to hear the same stiff voicemail greeting: “You have reached the office of Dr. Ellen Horton. I’m unavailable to take your call. Please leave me a message and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”

Frustrated, Kilburn turned his attention to Lopez and Cohen, who stood chatting in the queue. Kilburn recognized their growing comfort with one another. During the flight, he noticed how warm and relaxed Lopez had become with the detective, frequently touching his hand or elbow and laughing freely in his company. Cohen was less demonstrative, but his attention never left the petite epidemiologist.

Kilburn realized they made a good match. Cohen’s quiet pensiveness perfectly complemented Lopez’s feisty resolve. But watching their intimacy bloom only heightened Kilburn’s awareness of his loneliness. An image of Michelle floated to mind. She had hardly been out of his thoughts since Louise told him she’d called. The message renewed his hope that she might be missing him, as much as he was her.

Cohen interrupted Kilburn’s daydreaming with a wave. A young muscular cab driver with a buzz cut was loading their bags into the trunk of his cab. Kilburn climbed into the backseat beside Lopez, relieved to enter the cab’s air-conditioned interior.

The car pulled away from the terminal. “Some hot today, huh?” the driver grunted.

“When is this heat going to let up?” Kilburn asked the cabbie.

“Dunno. Let’s find out.” The driver reached for his radio and turned up the volume. “Weather report ought to come on after the news.”

Kilburn picked up on the female news anchor’s story in mid-sentence: “—so officials are not releasing the cause of death at this hour. No one at SeptoMed Pharmaceuticals could be reached for comment. We’ll have more on this story as it develops. In other news today, transit officials—”