My insides disappear. Baxter stands in the doorway. His hair is wet, flattened against his head, and he’s in fresh clothes, dress pants on, a new shirt. He walks into the room looking more our teacher than he ever has—but his eyes are so sad, so disappointed in us.

“You’re infected,” Cary says.

“What? What are you talking about? I didn’t—”

“Your arm. I saw it.”

Baxter shakes his head slowly. He steps forward and the rest of us take a collective step back and I know at that moment this is settled. Even if we spend the next hour letting Baxter try to negotiate his own survival, we have already decided he’s going to die.

“Can I see it?” Rhys asks. “The bite?”

Baxter studies us. I’m hoping for something but I don’t know what it is. I want him to handle it the right way. I want him to make it easier on all of us. In a way, he does.

He does the most condemnable thing ever.

He tries to run.

“Get him!” Trace shouts. He actually shouts that.

The world comes down on Baxter. Rhys, Cary, and Trace have him on the floor and the gun skitters beyond them. I grab it while Cary and Trace hold Baxter down and Rhys asks Cary, “Which arm? Which arm?”

Cary says, “Left! It’s the left—”

Rhys rolls up Baxter’s shirtsleeve. Grace shines the light on it. I’ve never seen a bite close up. It’s raw and angry, red and yellow teeth marks. The skin is clean—thanks to the shower—but inflamed. Weeping, sore. It looks like a fever.

“It’s not what you think. I promise, it’s not—”

Rhys presses his hand against Baxter’s forehead.

“If it’s not a bite, what is it?” Rhys asks. “You have to tell us what it is.”

“It’s—it’s not—” We wait. Baxter’s face crumples. “It’s a bite.” Harrison runs to the farthest corner of the room. “No—it’s not—it’s a bite—but it’s not—you have to listen to me—it’s not from one of them—I promise you—”

“But it’s infected,” Grace whispers. “Look at it—”

“I’m not infected! I’m not—you have to believe me, I’m not—”

“You have a bite but it’s not from the infected?” Trace asks incredulously. “That’s what you want us to believe?”

“That’s what it is!”

“Bullshit! You’re just saying that because you don’t want to die—”

“I think he’s telling the truth,” Rhys says.

But I’m the only one who hears him say it and I don’t have the courage to ask him to repeat himself. I look at Baxter’s arm, the bite, and I don’t understand how Baxter could be telling the truth. He’s infected and he needs to die.