I stood. “The scourge,” I said. “The vaccine. I’ve never been more confused in my life.”

“The more you learn,” she said, “the less you know.”

“Shut up, then,” I said.

She opened the door and we walked through. So this was where he kept his lab. Impressive. Big and spacious with drawers along the walls like at a morgue. Steel workstations with vials and syringes and other mysterious utensils. Tubular pods meant to hold a person standing up. The floor was gleaming, the air purified. If there was a speck of dust in there I’d be shocked.

A young man in a lab coat came walking towards me. Early twenties with streaks of grey already highlighting his dark hair. We both wore the same style goatee.

“Mr. Wheeler,” he said. Someone must have given him my dossier. “This is very courageous of you. You have my admiration.”

“Thanks, but I wasn’t given much choice.” Humor is my form of self-defense, and I had left it behind. Something about those tubes.

“Have you changed your mind?” This kid, what is he, an intern?

“No. Whatever is in my son, I want it out.”

“Great. It’s decided, then.”

My choice. “Fine.”

There are questions you can ask here, but the answers don’t help. It’s not really about what happens to me, anyway. It’s about what has already happened to you. As Malia would say in her roundabout way, “I,” meaning me, “am but a stone tossed in the pond for the purpose of creating a wake.”

I’ll say it more plainly: I write jingles for ads that get played on the radio. My goal is to get them stuck in your mind. Doctor O has a ditty of his own, and this is how he spreads it: through stories, the most ancient virus known to mankind. My story brought you here despite the clear warnings. To this book that is coded with symbols you aren’t meant to read. That’s how he finds you. It’s how he found me. Now you are part of his army, soon to be recruited and put through your own personal initiation. May be days, weeks, years. But there’s no removing the mark.

The young man with the prematurely grey hair led me to a vertical pod.

“Will you please retrieve the transmitter?” he asked Malia.

She left us alone together. The term ‘awkward silence’ was coined for moments like this. I stood there, studying him. Wondering how he fit into the picture. And I’ve thought more about him since. If only I’d gotten a glimpse of Mister O during our fireside chat, I’d know. But here’s my theory. This young lab technician was Mister O’s eternity plan. Always keep a younger version of yourself handy in case something deadly happens.