The silence in Nico’s car is broken only by the gravelly Italian voice on the radio. Alana tries to focus on the broader picture—an overall impression of where this outbreak stands and where it might head—but she cannot shake the mental image of little Rosa. She can still hear the soft crunch of each chest compression accompanied by the desperate sobs of her mother, as the ICU team worked frantically but futilely to restart the girl’s heart.

“Tale stronzate!” Nico grunts, pulling Alana from her despondent thoughts. “Such bullshit!”

“What is?”

Nico shakes a finger at the radio panel. “Such an idiot. This Tommaso Crispi!”

“Who is he?”

“A local politician with the Leagua Nord—the Northern League—the anti-immigration party here in Liguria. Crispi is the worst of the lot. He’s defending the vandalism of that mosque. He calls it self-defense.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Crispi doesn’t just blame Yasin Ahmed for the spread of the plague. No. He’s says all Muslims are to blame. And they should all be deported. The Northern League is holding a rally later today. They are expecting thousands.”

“Thousands? The threat of the plague turns this city into a ghost town, yet thousands of people are willing to turn out to protest its imaginary source?”

“Ignorance.”

Alana experiences a pang of guilt over not having done more to the delay the publication of Yasin’s name, which after all has whipped up this racist rancor, but she keeps it to herself.

They drive a few miles farther, until Nico slows the car to a stop in front of a tree-lined park. “Parco Serra Gropallo,” he announces. “I was here only last week with little Enzo. He loves the big slide in the playground.”

Alana can picture Nico horsing around with his son on a playground. She has little doubt he would thrive as a dad, he’s so loving and playful. It raises the specter of what might have been.

As soon as they step onto the grass, Alana spots the commotion in the clearing between the trees. People stand inside a ring of yellow barrier tape secured around trees. Armed police guard the perimeter. As Alana nears, she can see that it’s not a typical crime scene. Byron and Justine are wearing masks, gowns, and gloves. Justine holds a branch in her hand. At her feet lies a grayish black blob the size of a large bread roll. It’s not until they reach the barrier that Alana recognizes it for a partially decomposed rat covered by a clear plastic bag.

“Another senseless victim of gang violence,” Justine jokes as they reach the barrier.

Alana leans over the tape but knows better than to cross it. “What have you got?” she asks, dreading the answer.

Justine points with the branch to the rat’s mouth, which is encrusted with dark blood. “Hemorrhagic shock.” She runs the stick along the animal’s hind limbs. “Buboes. This little fella died of the plague.”