“Excuse me?” Dr. Johnson says, and they both look at her. “I’ve got a phalanx of reporters outside. A new patient every hour. And the mayor, governor, and police chief on the phone. You all don’t seem to be in a rush, but I am. You all don’t seem to be nervous, but I am.”

Most people live in a bubble. If they didn’t read the news, it wouldn’t matter who was president or whether a peace treaty had been signed or which corporate leader had stepped down in a scandal. They are unaffected by the theater of the world, even though their phones may incorrectly magnify their connection. How must it feel, then, to be one of them? To know that something mythological rained from the sky? That everything has changed and nothing has changed? You’re still paying your car insurance and worrying over a discolored mole and ordering a soy caramel latte with sprinkles from the barista even as the news tells you that something in the Louisiana bayou is killing children, and a village in France was discovered encased in ice. It’s all so far away, a source of entertainment or vague unease until it’s in your backyard.

That’s when Annabelle realizes that not just Dr. Johnson but every nurse and doctor in the unit is staring at her. There is a mixture of fear and neediness on their faces. They aren’t reading the news anymore—they are the news. The comet is here. In their backyard. And they want it gone.

Dr. Johnson pokes a finger at her. Even muffled by the mask, her voice comes as a clear shout. “You’re standing there, acting all amazed, saying how promising all this is, while I’m left to wonder whether we’re ground zero for the next pandemic. Talk to me. Do we need to shut down the interstate? Do we need to quarantine the city? What’s happening?”

“Oh,” Annabelle says, “I’m sorry if we’ve inconvenienced you,” and Isaac visibly cringes, because he has been trained to know that tone of voice. Annabelle always pours extra syrup over her anger. “I was under the mistaken impression that expert advice and government resources might be of use about now. How about we cut out the middleman and hurry things along by just going straight to the source.” She knocks at the glass, chiming it with one of her rings. “Augustino?” she says and his eyes wobble before focusing on her. “Augustino Chives? Will you just come out and tell us? Tell us what you want?”

The man looks at her, his lips trembling.

“What’s that?” she says. “I can’t quite hear you.”

His mouth opens. And a geyser of gray-black bile splashes across the window.

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