“I’m lucky to be alive,” Patrick said. “And I’m even luckier Chance is my brother.” He dipped his head, a rare show of embarrassment. “Thanks for bringing Alex back.”

Everyone’s attention swung to me. Eve watched me very closely.

I gave a dumb little wave because I didn’t know what else to do. Then I took the black cowboy hat off my head.

And put it back on Patrick’s where it belonged.

Entry 41

ENTRY 41

Moths swirled in the shafts of light falling through the windows of the biology lab. Once Dr. Chatterjee had examined Alex’s leg and prescribed ice, Advil, and rest, she’d curled up on her cot and fallen asleep. Then he’d asked to meet with me and Patrick privately. He’d led us to his old classroom. Sitting behind his dusty desk now, he played with a DNA model made of rubber.

“The unidentified-particulate readings haven’t diminished since your eighteenth birthday, Patrick,” he said. “Not one bit.”

“Do you think he might have passed some window of vulnerability or something?” I asked.

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Why not?”

“Because so far everything about these spores, these … beings, has been maximally aggressive and effective. A brief infection window is neither. Plus, Occam’s razor dictates that the simplest solution is often the correct one.” Chatterjee spun the rubber ladder in his hands. “Which in this case would be genetic immunity.”

“If I have it, then Chance has it, too,” Patrick said. “I mean, these things are hereditary, right?”

The hope in his voice was so clear. As was the desperation.

“We won’t know for two and a half more years,” Chatterjee said, “when Chance turns eighteen. But I don’t think it’s as likely as in … other families.”

Watching that genetic model rotating in his hands, I felt my heart pounding. “What do you mean?” I said.

Patrick drew himself upright. “What are you talking about?”

“Your parents wanted to keep it all quiet for some reason. I counseled them against it, but I couldn’t say anything due to medical confidentiality. But now I don’t really see the point anymore, since everyone’s gone. You’re the only ones who … who…”

“Dr. Chatterjee,” Patrick said, his teeth clenched. “Will you please get to the point?”

Chatterjee set the DNA ladder down on his desk, finally looking up at us. “Your mother had some fertility issues. For a time she thought she couldn’t have kids. But your parents wanted children very badly. And your mother wanted to be pregnant, to carry you both. They kept trying to find a way. And finally they did.” He took a deep breath. “You were both born by embryo transfer.”

You could have knocked Patrick and me over with the tap of a finger.