“The taxi driver thinks you’re having an affair?”

“Just forget it.”

“How do you know you’ve got the flu? That it’s not something else?”

“I don’t have a rash. Is that what you want to hear?”

There was a long silence. Then he said, “What if you get one?”

“Then I’m probably going to die, Benton.” I coughed again. “You’ll probably never touch me again. And I’d never want you to see me again, if it goes its course. It’s easier to worry about stalkers, serial killers, people you can blow away with a gun. But the invisible ones are who I’ve always feared. They take you on a sunny day in a public place. They slide in with your lemonade. I’ve been vaccinated for hepatitis B. But that’s just one killer in a huge population. What about tuberculosis and HIV, and Hanta and Ebola? What about this? God.” I took a deep breath. “It started with a torso and I did not know.”

“I heard about the two new cases,” he said, and his voice had gotten quiet and gentle. “I can be there in two hours. Do you want to see me?”

“Right now I don’t want to see anyone.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m on my way.”

“Benton,” I said, “don’t.”

But he had his mind made up, and when he pulled into my driveway in his throaty BMW, it was almost midnight. I met him at the door, and we did not touch.

“Let’s sit in front of the fire,” he said.

We did, and he was kind enough to make me another cup of decaffeinated tea. I sat on the couch, he was in a side chair, and flames fed by gas enveloped an artificial log. I had turned the lights low.

“I don’t doubt your theory,” he said as he lingered over cognac.

“Maybe tomorrow, we’ll know more.” I was perspiring as I shivered, staring into the fire.

“Right now I don’t give a shit about any of that.” He looked fiercely at me.

“You have to give a shit about that.” I wiped my brow with a sleeve.

“No.”

I was silent as he stared at me.

“What I care about is you,” he said.

Still, I did not respond.

“Kay.” He gripped my arm.

“Don’t touch me, Benton.” I shut my eyes. “Don’t. I don’t want you sick, too.”

“See, and that’s convenient for you. To be sick. And I can’t touch you. And you the noble doctor caring more about my well-being than your own.”

I was quiet, determined not to cry.

“Convenient. You want to be sick right now so nobody can get close. Marino won’t even give you a ride home. And I can’t put my hands on you. And Lucy won’t see you and Janet has to talk to you behind glass.”

“What is your point?” I looked at him.

“Functional illness.”

“Oh. I guess you studied that in school. Maybe during your master’s in psychology or something.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”