“Maybe,” Keith said gently. “But I can’t help how I feel. Maybe this is my issue, but I always sense that you’d rather have your old family back than start a new one with me.”

“Not true.” But even at the time, she knew Keith was not far off the mark. She barely remembered her mother, who died of leukemia when Lopez was only four. Her father had been her world. She would have given anything to have him back.

They said very little else after that. When the sun rose, Lopez went to her bedroom and came back with the jewelry box bearing the engagement ring she hadn’t worn in weeks. He took the box back from her hand, hugged her briefly, and left without another word.

Most of the time, Lopez believed the demise of the engagement had nothing to do with the permanent void she felt following her father’s death. She and Keith had different expectations from life. Ten years older, he was ready to settle. He wanted the house and kids. She still wanted to tackle the world. But at times like now, she had her doubts.

Arriving at the hospital, she shook off the memories. She parked in the same “Emergency Callback” spot as the previous visit and then headed up to the infectious-diseases ward. After checking with her manager, one of the nurses led Lopez straight to Marilyn Wales Carlyle’s room. Lopez donned all the required body contact precautions, from cap and face mask down to booties, before entering the sterile windowless room.

Carlyle was sitting up over the side of the bed in her housecoat holding the newspaper on her lap. If not for the surgical mask covering her mouth, Carlyle could have passed for any person enjoying a lazy start to her day. She had medium-length gray hair, a full but not chunky face, and kind, brown eyes.

“Mrs. Carlyle, I’m Dr. Lopez.”

“Ah, I get a sixth opinion,” Carlyle said, though her tone was friendly.

“My clinical opinion isn’t worth much.” Lopez shrugged. “I’m an epidemiologist with the Centers for Disease Control.”

“Oh.” Carlyle said, sounding impressed. “How can I help, Dr. Lopez?”

Lopez took her response as an invitation, so she pulled up a chair close to her bed and sat down. “How are you feeling?”

“I have a sore throat,” Carlyle said. “They tell me it’s typical for strep throat, but otherwise I’m okay.”

Lopez nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“But even if I don’t deteriorate I will be in quarantine for at least a week.” She paused to clear her throat. “I’ll have to miss Dad’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” Lopez said, feeling a sudden surge of empathy. “I was hoping to ask you about your father’s infection.”

Carlyle looked down at the newspaper. “Okay.”

“How long was he in the hospital before it flared up so badly?”