The clouds are thick and the sidewalks are damp, but the constant rain of the past few days has paused for a moment. The sun is setting over the distant Olympics and below them ferries chug through the water, carrying people from the city to the many island communities that spot the inlet. A few people glance at her, suspicious of her mask, as if she is the one who is sick. They don’t like to be reminded of the pandemic. She’s a walking memory of darker times. But they—she wants to yell—they are the ones who could be infected and not even know it. She knows this is an affliction most police suffer from—constant paranoia, suspicion of danger around every corner—and it feels more real than ever right now.

A waft of fryer grease hits her and only then does she realize how hungry she is. It’s the dinner hour, and as she walks by a diner, she looks through the windows at the brightly lit space where forks clatter, knives scrape, and people toast with beers and laugh their way through conversations. How can life continue so normally when so much fucked-up shit is going on just up the road? It was a thought she often had in the months after Mia went missing as well. Why wasn’t everyone feeling what she felt? A man at a window table is cutting up a steak covered in mushrooms, and when he brings it to his mouth, he catches her eye and pauses his chewing.

She starts down the sidewalk again. Around the corner comes a dog, a mutt maybe eighty pounds, broad-backed with a boxy face, and brown fur dappled gray. There is something clearly wrong with it. Its gait is unsteady and its head glances off a telephone pole and then crashes full-on into a parked car. It wears a collar, but when she whistles, when she says, “Here, boy,” she realizes she won’t be able to check the tags because it goes still at the sound of her and wrinkles its muzzle and shows its teeth. They are red with blood and clotted with flesh. A growl rumbles the air, heavy enough that she can feel it. The light is fading, but she sees now that its eyes are rimmed and oozing with what appears to be fungal growth. Mushrooms sprout tumorously from its nose and ears.

The growling sharpens into a bark. She retreats one slow step at a time. The muscles in the dog’s legs spasm, and she can’t tell if it’s trying to hold itself up or readying to lunge.

Then a car alarm sounds across the street—with a honk, honk, honk—and the dog swings toward it. Something oozes from its chops and dampens the concrete as it lets out a snarl. Then it bounds off the sidewalk into the screech of traffic.