Inside, voices are unusually low, faces grim. Another checkpoint has been established in front of the emergency room with a changing area and a makeshift decontamination zone walled off by freestanding dividers and sheets of plastic. Alana and Nico have to step into full PPE outfits before the security guard will allow them inside. Slipping the hood over her head, Alana experiences an uneasy flash of déjà vu.

The dread inside the ER is tangible. Bedside monitors blare their alarms, while voices yell over the cacophony. Masked staff bustle everywhere. No one is still.

Nico rushes toward a room in the far corner. Alana begins to follow, but she pauses when she glimpses a commotion out of the corner of her eye. She turns to peer through the window beside her. Inside, someone is straddling a patient on a stretcher and performing vigorous chest compressions. With every thrust, dark blood sprays out around the man’s breathing tube to form a red mist in front of his lips.

Disheartened, Alana turns away and heads into the room Nico entered. A patient lies on the bed, propped up by the head of the stretcher. An oxygen reservoir covers the lower half of his face, but he’s not connected to a ventilator. Nico rests a gloved hand on the man’s shoulder. At first glance, Alana assumes the patient is gasping for air, but then realizes he’s actually laughing. So is Nico.

“How is any of this funny?” Alana says.

Nico looks over. “Claudio told me that his ex-wife still blames him for every cold or flu he ever brought home from work. He just asked me to send for her now.”

Alana steps closer. “Does Claudio understand English?”

“Barely. If you speak slowly and use tiny words—”

“I speak better English than this clown!” Claudio rasps. “Better Italian, too. Also, French, German, Spanish, and Portuguese. Even Latin, if we are counting.”

“Good to meet you, Claudio. I’m Alana Vaughn.”

Claudio turns to his friend. “Nico, questa è lei? La Alana?”

Nico dismisses the question with a self-conscious wave, but Alana feels a tinge of excitement at the idea of him still referring to her as “the Alana.”

“Dr. Claudio Dora here is my colleague,” Nico says. “Well, not so much. He’s only an emergency room doctor. He didn’t do so well in medical school.”

“Then why you did copy off me on all our exams?”

“Copy from you? Of all the stupid ideas—”

Claudio silences Nico with a sudden coughing spasm. He jerks both his hands to his face, covering the oxygen reservoir, pointlessly. When he pulls his hands away, the clear plastic is speckled with blood.

Nico squeezes his arm. “Are you all right, Claudio?”

“No.” Claudio clears his throat noisily. “I feel worse than the last time I drove with you.” He looks at Alana. “My life flashes before my eyes every time I get into his car.”

“Seriously, Claudio!” Nico snaps. “No more joking. How do you feel?”

“I ache all over. The chills and shakes come and go. I feel very short of breath without oxygen. The cough is worse than anything I’ve ever felt. But I am relieved I can still talk . . . even if only to you.”