Alana reaches for the next bin, which is almost as weighty as the first. She opens it to find it full of rice. She lifts another container that is much lighter. It’s filled with corn chips. She darts back into the kitchen and grabs one of the large serving spoons. She sifts through the bin with the spoon, but feels nothing except more chips. Discouraged, she reaches for another, lighter bin, to discover that it’s packed with plain cereal. She digs the spoon through it, as well, but finds only cereal.

She opens the next container, which turns out to be packed with cornflakes. As she’s about to lower the lid back into place, a few of the golden flakes on one side begin to vibrate. She jams the spoon into the spot and starts sweeping flakes away to one side. After the fourth or fifth scoopful, she spots a trace of gray.

She leans forward and gently touches the spot with the back of the spoon. Suddenly a rat shakes, spraying flakes everywhere and exposing its furry body among the grains. Alana yanks her arm back in surprise and immediately feels the heavy pop of her shoulder dislocating. She gasps in pain.

She clasps her wrist with her other hand and jerks it outward. Just as she feels the relief of the bone slipping back into place, something sharp pokes between her shoulder blades.

A chill rips through her. “Stefano?” she asks, without moving.

There’s an agonizing silence. “Sì,” he finally says.

Alana flinches as the blade’s pressure increases. She’s afraid to even inhale with the knife so close to her spine. “Do you speak English?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Stefano, I am a doctor,” Alana says slowly. “You understand?”

“You look like the others. The soldiers.” His voice is soft, but there’s menace in his tone.

“I’m not a soldier. I didn’t come here to harm you. Only to make sure no one else gets sick from the plague.”

“That is not the will of God.”

The knife presses even harder. She feels something cool against her back and realizes her biohazard suit is cut. She wonders if the blade has already penetrated her flesh. But she forces herself to focus. She remembers Dr. Lonzo’s description of Stefano’s fluctuating level of belief in his delusions. “It is not God, Stefano.”

“What did you say?” His voice cracks.

“I spoke with Dr. Lonzo,” she says, as she tightens the grip on the spoon, realizing she won’t have time to reach for the gun tucked behind her back. “He is a good man. A smart man.”

“Dr. Lonzo is wrong!”

“In your heart, you know he is right.” She can feel his thigh against the back of her leg. Her mind darts back to her hand-to-hand combat training. One blow to the groin might be enough to immobilize him. She squeezes the spoon tighter and edges sideways, trying to create access. “God is not speaking to you, Stefano. Those voices are inside your own head. They’re part of your illness.”