Footage airs out of Dallas of a young boy walking naked down a gridlocked highway, his face and limbs bloated as if from some horrific allergy. The whites of his eyes turned red from subconjunctival haemorrhaging. Simone and I watch the broadcast in abject horror. It looks as if his entire body is burning from within.

He stumbles and lurches forward over the asphalt before finally falling to his knees. He places his hands in his lap and lifts his head towards the sky. His body relaxes and for a brief moment he seems peaceful, contemplative.

‘The following footage may be too sensitive for young viewers,’ the telecaster warns.

The boy smiles at the horrified onlookers as his ashen skin grows pale, as it begins to separate from his body. It slides down his slender frame and quickly vanishes to expose the gelatinous fat beneath, the slick white tension of his subcutaneous tissue. Then the musculature of his body melts away to reveal his skeleton, the internal organs beneath.

He looks as if he is a living anatomical figurine.

I watch his heart as it sends fresh blood screaming round his body. It seems furious, as I suppose most caged things are. I kneel in front of the television and feel my chest tighten. I touch the screen, tracing the shape of the boy, and feel the crackle of electricity at my fingertips.

I watch as his skeleton disappears. As the internal machinery of his body is disassembled. Until his brain is all that is left, suspended in mid-air. The intricate network of nerves connected to it hanging down like the roots of a plant.

The camera shakes as bystanders begin to flee the scene in panic. People abandon their vehicles and surge forward, a great mass of bodies. By the time the footage stabilises the transformation is complete and the boy is gone. He has vanished completely.

In the wake of the broadcast the authorities assure the public that the illness is being contained, that the measures they have put in place are working. They ask for patience and trust. But each day state lines seem to grow dimmer, eroded by the infection’s lashing waves. The illness leaves only land in its wake. Vast expanses of unoccupied geography.

The media is unable to reach consensus on what to call the missing. Many outlets refer to them simply as ‘the disappeared’. In the absence of bodies they are treated more like captives than casualties. Various religious denominations claim the acts as divine intervention. Others see it as an act of war. The world’s militaries perform drills. They fire aimless missiles into international waters and march in impotent formations. Submarines and warships dance endlessly in the Pacific.

A group of religious spokesmen scale the White House gates and are tackled by Secret Service agents. A state senator is assassinated outside a town hall meeting. The president begins daily televised broadcasts urging the public to remain calm.

A congregation in Utah hold hands and drink in unison from styrofoam cups. Parents lift the chins of their sons and daughters to help the mixture down. When the cameras pull back to show their slumped bodies I’m reminded of the painting in our therapist’s office. A calm sea. Clouds looming on the horizon.