“John, I was exposed almost two weeks ago,” I said.

“By the homicide case.”

“I should have it by now.”

“Whatever it is. The last case of smallpox was in October 1977, in Somalia, Kay. Since then it has been eradicated from the face of the earth.”

“I know what I saw on the electron microscope. It could have been transmitted through unnatural exposure.”

“Deliberately, you’re saying.”

“I don’t know.” I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. “But don’t you find it odd that the first person possibly infected was also murdered?”

“I find all of this odd.” He got up. “But beyond offering biologically safe containment for the body and you, there isn’t much we can do.”

“Of course there is. There isn’t anything you can’t do.” I did not want to hear of his jurisdictional conflicts.

“At the moment, this is a public health concern, not a military concern. You know we can’t just yank this right out from under CDC. At the worst, what we’ve got is an outbreak of some sort. And that’s what they do best.”

“Tangier Island should be quarantined.”

“We’ll talk about that after the autopsy.”

“Which I plan to do,” I added.

“See how you feel,” he said as a nurse appeared at the door.

He conferred briefly with her on his way out, then she was walking in, dressed in another blue suit. Young and annoyingly cheerful, she was explaining that she worked out of Walter Reed Hospital but helped here when they had patients in special containment, which, fortunately, wasn’t often.

“Last time was when those two lab workers got exposed to partially thawed field mouse blood contaminated with Hantavirus,” she said. “Those hemorrhagic diseases are nasty. I guess they stayed here about fifteen days. Dr. Fujitsubo says you want a phone.” She laid a flimsy robe on the bed. “I’ll have to get that for you later. Here’s some Advil and water.” She set them on the bedside table. “Are you hungry?”

“Cheese and crackers, something like that, would be nice.” My stomach was so raw I was almost sick.

“How are you feeling besides the headache?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t change. Why don’t you go on in the bathroom, empty your bladder, clean up and get under the covers. There’s the TV.” She pointed, speaking simply as if I were in second grade.

“What about all my things?”

“They’ll sterilize them, don’t you worry.” She smiled at me.

I could not get warm, and took another shower. Nothing would wash away this wretched day, and I continued to see a sunken mouth gaping at me, eyes half open and blind, an arm hanging stiffly off a foul deathbed. When I emerged from the bathroom, a plate of cheese and crackers had been left for me, and the TV was on. But there was no phone.

“Oh hell,” I muttered as I got under the covers again.

The next morning, my breakfast arrived by pass box, and I set the tray on my lap as I watched the Today show, which I ordinarily never got to do. Martha Stewart was whipping up something with meringue while I picked at a soft-boiled egg that wasn’t quite warm. I could not eat, and did not know if my back ached because I was tired or from some other reason I would not contemplate.