leaned in and studied the area where his palm had rested.
The outlines of his fingers were there in the skin, faint and fading but there.
He backpedaled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he fled to the upstairs bathroom, barely making it before vomiting into the toilet. His heart banged in his ears like an angered child slamming a door continuously.
“What the hell’s happening?” he said, before his stomach heaved again.
When the nausea subsided enough for him to sink away from the toilet, he sat with his back against the claw-footed tub, his head resting on its curved lip. He remained there until he knew he could stand and washed his mouth out with water before moving down to the living room.
The television screen bloomed into life, the same news channel from the day before coming into focus. A man wearing a suit that looked as if he’d slept in it stood before the camera. His dark hair stuck up on one side of his head, and he kept attempting to smooth it down as he spoke.
-tion-wide panic has erupted overnight. The streets of Washington are full of protesters, many of them carrying weapons, firing guns, and clubbing those who try to subdue them. The death toll this morning is unknown since many of the major treatment centers have been unreachable, but we do know that those afflicted with H4N9 began dying late last night. The CDC hasn’t released a report on their efforts to create a vaccine or what the conversion of infection to death rate is at this time, but we expect them to within the hour. Early analytical reports have stated that the mortality rate could be as high as seventy-five percent .
Quinn tried to catch the remote, but it slipped from his hand. And when he knelt to retrieve it, the strength fled from his legs and he crumpled to the couch behind him. He stared at the screen as the reporter listed off emergency centers that were still accepting the ill.
There were none in the state of Maine.
He thumbed the power button and let the room fall into silence. A gentle breeze nudged the windows and he looked outside at the cerulean sky, unblemished, the pine trees swaying gently. How would the sea look today? Aquamarine or cobalt or maybe gunmetal gray. The Atlantic never seemed to be in concurrence with the weather. It was its own dominion, independent of the sky and breeze. How would it be to get in the skiff and sail away across it? Let the waves and wind take him where they wished. Forget the broken sounds from his father and Teresa’s lungs; forget the freezing, damp of their skin beneath his fingers; forget the quiet air of the house with no one speaking.
A sick, ratcheting cough came from above and he turned toward the stairs, listening to the brittle grinding sound that shouldn’t have been coming from a person. Teresa, it was Teresa.
Quinn ran up the stairway taking the treads two at a time and rushed into her room. The old woman was on her side, shaking and shivering with each cough, curling in on herself like a dead leaf in a fire. He knelt at her side, throwing an arm over her thin shoulders, trying to brace her without really knowing what else to do. She hacked long and painful, her breath sounding like it was full of sand and gravel. Eventually she had nothing left, and she sagged, rolling slowly onto her back again. He gently sat her up enough to prop two pillows behind her sweating back, and when he eased her against them, her eyes were open. They were bloodshot and pain-ridden, but clearly seeing him.
“Are you okay?” she wheezed.
Quinn deflated, his air coming out in one long breath.
“You’re asking if I’m okay? Yes, I’m fine.”
“You don’t feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“The cold?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Good.” Teresa closed her eyes and was able to breathe deep without succumbing to another coughing spell. He brought the glass close to her face, offering the straw to her. She shook her head.
“Not thirsty.”
“You have to drink; you’re