I smile and concede. "It is very likely to be my good behavior."

"No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof. What everybody echoes ..."

"Or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood tomorrow. " I put my hand up to stop another quote from leaving his lips. "Ethan, I truly appreciate the effort, but I can recite Thoreau all day long and still be afraid."

"But maybe I can't," he says. He squeezes me. "And feel. Your shoulders have stopped shaking. Guess you don't know as much as you think."

I notice. The trembling is gone. Afraid but calm. It's a slightly better place to be. I think of the wild energy of cyclones, but at their center is a tiny circle of calm. That is what Ethan has given me. I lean in closer to his shoulder. "Maybe she's nor sick. Maybe she just doesn't want to see me."

"She didn't look good the last time we saw her. Her color. Something about her was off."

It's true. I remember noticing her yellow pallor and the way her pills stuck in her throat. Another virus? It couldn't be, not again, but of course, deep down, I know it's possible. Deadly viruses are the plague of our age.

The road to Allys's house dips and weaves. It's a road I have not yet traveled on. It winds deeper and deeper inland, getting narrower, the trees choking the road. Is this really a place I want to go? Does Ethan really know the way?

"She lives this far?"

"Not so far. It only seems that way when you haven't been somewhere before."

He turns down an impossibly narrower lane. The road is uneven, not quite paved, a mixture of heavy gravel pressed into dirt. It is nor a road on which I can picture Allys walking. No homes can be seen from the road; tall scrubby bushes obscure the view. We arrive at a driveway, marked by a simple white post with an address. Ethan maneuvers his truck down the narrow path and we are swallowed up by overgrown oleander, pink and white blooms brushing our windows. It is a cheery contrast to our reality and the reason we are traveling such a long and unknown road. The flashing of white, pink, and green briefly transfixes me.

Our tunnel finally opens up to a large expanse, an emerald lawn skirting a small gray house with a deep shady porch. It is a silent house, still, like it is waiting to breathe, and I brace myself against the seat.

"Maybe no one's home."

"They're home," I say. Which neurochips are already reaching beyond what my neurons know? How are they telling me? Or is it simply what they call intuition? But I know with precise certainty. We are being watched. Eyes size up our car.

We park on the circular drive and walk up the porch steps. Ethan's heavy boots boom against the silence. Even birds are afraid to chirp.

I hesitate on the last step. "I'm not sure — "

"I don't feel good about this either."

My imagined stomach catches. "She's our friend." It's a question as much as a statement.

"I'm not reassured," Ethan answers.

The door opens before we can knock.

"Is Allys home?" Ethan blurts out.

A woman stares at us, her face blank and her eyes dark and circled. "I remember you," she says. The hollowness of her eyes reminds me of Mother when I looked up from my bed in the hospital in those days that I traveled a thin line back and forth between life and death, days where she never left my side. "Ethan," the woman finally adds.

"Yes, I picked Allys up once for school."

"That was kind of you." Her gaze drifts away like she is recalling an important moment.

"And I'm Jenna," I say, holding my hand out.

Her focus jerks back, her pupils small, hard beads. "Jenna," she says, like she knows who I am. She looks at my outstretched hand and slowly reaches out and holds it. She runs her thumb along my knuckles like she is counting each one and then she doesn't let go. I look at Ethan, afraid to pull away. She sees us exchanging glances and drops my hand. Her back stiffens. "Allys isn't well," she says.

"May we see her?"

A hand reaches around the door and pulls it open wide.

"Why not?" a man says. He is clearly as spent as the woman, the circles under his eyes and the lines of his forehead speaking of days of no sleep.

"She might not be up to it," the woman protests, blocking the way.

The man's voice is tender, barely a whisper, a short knife in the tension that grips the house. "They're her friends, Victoria. If not now, when?"

She steps aside. "This way," he says. My feet don't move, but Ethan's nudge at my elbow overrides a flurry of thoughts to flee. We follow him through the entryway and down a long hall. I sense the woman's presence close behind, watching our moves. My moves. Before we reach the last room on the left, I stop.

I can already smell death. Memories shake me. Smell. It was my last connection with this world before I was swept into a dark empty one. It is distinct, sweet and yeasty, the smell of death, like spoiled bread, damp and swollen, coating walls, nostrils, skin, anything within reach, trying to tag it all. Even when I could no longer see, I could still smell death crawling over my skin.

"She's in there?" I ask.

"Yes," her father whispers. "It's okay. She'll want to see you."

We take two more steps. Before we can even see her, we can see medical equipment jamming the room. Suction pumps. Trays of gauze, minty mouth swabs, cups of crushed ice, and stacks of white towels.