her. She took several deep breaths, then made herself leave the bathroom. She found the keys to her mother’s truck hanging by the door and headed out.
The roads were deserted. Grace crept along at a snail’s pace, disoriented, a little dizzy, inexplicably terrified to be outside. She lifted her hand to her head – was she getting a fever? Her forehead was cool and dry, but she was breathing too quickly. Panic, she realized, and forced down a deep breath, muttering calming nonsense to herself. “Take it easy. You’re fine. Everything’s okay. Just keep swimming.”
But no amount of positive self-talk could unknot her stomach muscles as she turned into the Harris family’s driveway. She scrutinized the house as she crawled along – nothing looked out of place, but something felt off. She parked the truck by the back door, shut off the engine, then hopped out before she lost her nerve.
“Hello?” The screen door slammed behind her as she entered the mud room, making her jump. “Hello, is anyone home? Mrs. Harris? William?”
She stepped into the kitchen, and recognized the chaos of illness: Dishes everywhere, though it looked like someone had made a start on cleaning up. The sink was filled with soapy water and soaking dishes, and a single spot had been cleared at the kitchen table. She lifted her head, sniffed, and winced. Faintly, she could smell sickness – improvised bed pans for people too sick to reach the bathroom, soiled sheets.
A creak sounded behind her and she whirled. Her heart jolted painfully; a man loomed in the deep shadows of the mudroom with a baseball bat poised over his shoulder. “No! Please – it’s just me! It’s Grace!”
The man made a strangled sound and lowered the bat. “Grace?”
He stepped out of the shadows, and the looming man transformed into Quinn, just Quinn, just a sophomore punk. He blinked over and over, staring, confused. He swayed, and put a hand on the door jamb to steady himself. “Grace? Are you really here?”
He was about to fall over, she realized. “I’m really here.” She walked over to him, took the bat and led him to the cleared spot at the table. He just stood there until she pushed him into the chair. “Are you alright?”
He gazed up at her with glassy eyes, and she reached out automatically to feel his forehead. Cool. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten? Or slept?”
“I don’t know. Slept a little this morning, I think. Not hungry.” His gaze dropped to his hands, avoiding hers.
“Well, you’ve got to eat something.” She bustled into the pantry, grabbed peanut butter and graham crackers off the shelf. Quinn kept staring at his hands while she found a plate, smeared some peanut butter on the crackers then set them in front of him. “Here. You need protein. Get started.” There was orange juice in the fridge, and she poured him a tall glass. “Drink this first – your blood sugar is probably low, which might be making you feel nauseous.”
He obeyed her without raising his eyes, taking a long swallow of the juice, then starting on the crackers. She watched his slow, robotic movements for a while, listening for any other sounds in the house. Then, without speaking, she went to answer the question she couldn’t ask.
All of them. Mr. and Mrs. Harris, the four little boys, and William. All of them, dead in their beds. She stood in William’s bedroom doorway, staring at his still face, and felt her brain split in two.
Part of her analyzed what she was seeing; she had just cared
The roads were deserted. Grace crept along at a snail’s pace, disoriented, a little dizzy, inexplicably terrified to be outside. She lifted her hand to her head – was she getting a fever? Her forehead was cool and dry, but she was breathing too quickly. Panic, she realized, and forced down a deep breath, muttering calming nonsense to herself. “Take it easy. You’re fine. Everything’s okay. Just keep swimming.”
But no amount of positive self-talk could unknot her stomach muscles as she turned into the Harris family’s driveway. She scrutinized the house as she crawled along – nothing looked out of place, but something felt off. She parked the truck by the back door, shut off the engine, then hopped out before she lost her nerve.
“Hello?” The screen door slammed behind her as she entered the mud room, making her jump. “Hello, is anyone home? Mrs. Harris? William?”
She stepped into the kitchen, and recognized the chaos of illness: Dishes everywhere, though it looked like someone had made a start on cleaning up. The sink was filled with soapy water and soaking dishes, and a single spot had been cleared at the kitchen table. She lifted her head, sniffed, and winced. Faintly, she could smell sickness – improvised bed pans for people too sick to reach the bathroom, soiled sheets.
A creak sounded behind her and she whirled. Her heart jolted painfully; a man loomed in the deep shadows of the mudroom with a baseball bat poised over his shoulder. “No! Please – it’s just me! It’s Grace!”
The man made a strangled sound and lowered the bat. “Grace?”
He stepped out of the shadows, and the looming man transformed into Quinn, just Quinn, just a sophomore punk. He blinked over and over, staring, confused. He swayed, and put a hand on the door jamb to steady himself. “Grace? Are you really here?”
He was about to fall over, she realized. “I’m really here.” She walked over to him, took the bat and led him to the cleared spot at the table. He just stood there until she pushed him into the chair. “Are you alright?”
He gazed up at her with glassy eyes, and she reached out automatically to feel his forehead. Cool. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten? Or slept?”
“I don’t know. Slept a little this morning, I think. Not hungry.” His gaze dropped to his hands, avoiding hers.
“Well, you’ve got to eat something.” She bustled into the pantry, grabbed peanut butter and graham crackers off the shelf. Quinn kept staring at his hands while she found a plate, smeared some peanut butter on the crackers then set them in front of him. “Here. You need protein. Get started.” There was orange juice in the fridge, and she poured him a tall glass. “Drink this first – your blood sugar is probably low, which might be making you feel nauseous.”
He obeyed her without raising his eyes, taking a long swallow of the juice, then starting on the crackers. She watched his slow, robotic movements for a while, listening for any other sounds in the house. Then, without speaking, she went to answer the question she couldn’t ask.
All of them. Mr. and Mrs. Harris, the four little boys, and William. All of them, dead in their beds. She stood in William’s bedroom doorway, staring at his still face, and felt her brain split in two.
Part of her analyzed what she was seeing; she had just cared
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