Page 3 of Evolved

Clyde, Gina, and Wrensdale are looking in our direction, eyes narrowed behind their shields. Hopefully, Clyde’s recording settings will have filtered out the thud of my crashing tablet.

I pull the door closed silently, then bend forward to pick it up.

Knox has already done it, though. His dark eyes, behind a plastic shield, probe mine as he straightens, the pale blue mask over his mouth accentuating his olive-toned skin and hiding his expression.

It always feels like he sees me too deeply, like his gaze is a battering ram blasting past all my carefully constructed defenses.

“Everything okay?” His voice is muffled by his mask, but low-pitched, like he’s speaking only to me.

Because Gran’s health was uncertain, he, Gina, and I have been distancing and wearing masks longer than everyone else, even before news of the virus hit.

My breath hot against my skin inside my mask, I say, “Dr. Bakshi says she needs dialysis.” It feels awful saying it out loud, like there was a scratch in my own skin, and with every word, I’m clawing it deeper. “She wants her to undergo her first-round tomorrow. She’s arranged for a machine to be delivered and installed here, and a nurse to administer treatment. Can you oversee their arrival?”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet, studying me. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry. It’s not what I was hoping for either.”

Instantly, my eyes burn again.

We’ve been working together for nearly five years, but this is the closest we’ve ever stood. I can make out individual eyelashes, even behind the plastic shield, a freckle over his left brow, and when I let myself look directly into his eyes, I can almost feel the swirlings of his own brain grappling with the virus, the change in Gran’s position from VPOTUS to POTUS, her illness, me standing before him, two members of a dwindling group.

It’s all there, like looking at the images NASA takes of galaxies swirling with stars and planets, but it’s a whole world inside him, and I can only touch the surface.

It makes me wonder what he sees of me?

Can he sense my fear?

Do I want him to?

Would it feel better if he did? I don’t know.

A part of me longs to find out, to pull off my shield and mask, to peel off his, to look at him, really trulylook,and more, lethimlook at me. Maybe go a step further, step into his body, feel the warmth of him.

It’s a stupid thing to want a hug—indulgent and selfish and small in the face of the existential threat facing humanity.

My life isn’t about wanting things and taking them. It never has been.

So I back away, hugging my tablet against my chest like a shield, and reminding myself that I am not emotional. Ever. “Goodnight, Agent Silva.”

I don’t look back, don’t even pause or breathe fully until I’m alone in the temporary staffing quarters we’ve been assigned, my footie-covered sneakers, gloves, hazmat shield, mask, and earplugs on the bench, reeking of hand sanitizer, until I’ve climbed into the shower and scrubbed myself with soap. No matter how long I let the hot water run, I stay cold.

Gran just told people they’d meet again. I wrote those words.

And it was a lie.

The latest estimates put mortality upwards of sixty percent.

Someof us willmeet again, butmostof us?

We’ll be … gone.

I’m not sure which scares me more—the idea of dying from this flu … or surviving it and living in the ashes.

2|Poetry and maps and lipstick

OTTILIE

GRAN’S DIALYSIS BEGINSthe next day.

The machine is installed in the Roosevelt Room by a team of staffers who wear full hazmat gear. A woman whose face I can barely make out behind her protective equipment sets it up.

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