Dr. Nataraj extended her arm and Victor clasped her hand in a rare show of genuine affection. Usually, anything Vic ever said was in half jest, overexaggeration, or sarcasm. But not this time. He looked ready to hunt down those who were accountable and beat the shit out of them. I was prepared to join him.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Mom,” Arun said. “We’ll have answers before you know it.”

•  •  •

Gray haze lay thick over Taipei. I set a brisk pace, my hands thrust into the pockets of my black denim jacket. The sleeves were too short, the cuffs hitting a few inches above my wrists, and the material so worn, it had faded to a muddy gray. But it was the only jacket I owned, and one of the last things my mom had given me. Back then, it had been too big; she had laughed when I tried it on, the cuffs almost hanging below my fingertips. My mom had bargained for a cheaper price. “You’ll grow into it,” she had said, then touched my cheek.

In the end, she never did get to see me wear this jacket. She caught a cold that turned into a virulent strain of pneumonia. We couldn’t afford the medical care or medicines that might have saved her life. And at thirteen, I watched her die.

I shivered and drew the thin denim tighter around me.

Meet me at my mom’s office, Arun had messaged me an hour ago. I’m worried about her

Arun came from a family of prominent scientists, and Dr. Nataraj had encouraged his inquisitive nature since he could pose a scientific question. At eighteen, he was getting his doctorate in virology at the university. Arun was a genius. And being as logical and pragmatic as he was, he’d never worry without reason.

I walked faster.

College students on bikes emerged like phantoms toward me through the polluted haze. I’d walked this promenade lined with palm trees many times before to meet Arun. We’d been friends ever since I met him at my favorite cybercafe four years ago; he had been getting some secret gaming in after school. The university’s grand library was at the end of the wide path, but like the palm trees, I couldn’t see it. I might as well have been marooned on some desert island—the only inhabitants, the ghostly images of students on bikes floating past me and disappearing again into the gray smog.

Like everyone else, I wore a mask over my face. But this didn’t stop my eyes from burning, feeling as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper, and each choked breath still somehow tasted of ash and dust. My throat felt raw, irritated. The air was still as a held breath. This filth was going nowhere.