This is a fictional story. All names, places, and viruses are used fictitiously. Resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, past or present, are intentional.
If you haven’t read from the beginning, please start at Chapter 1 here.
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Due Date: 87 days away
I texted Travis that first Friday he was out, see if he needed anything going into the weekend. Single guy, I wasn’t sure what his pantry or medicine cabinet looked like. I knew his family lived nearby. His dad. His sister. I didn’t know if they’d brought him stuff or not.
Mostly, I wanted to feel like I was living outside myself for a change.
He said he was okay. “Luckily, I was already stocked up. Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”
The next week, I texted him again to see how he was feeling.
“I’m making it. How’s everything going at work?”
“Doing well. It’s nice to still have the better weather. No one else is sick, so that’s good.”
I waited a few days. I wanted him to follow up with me. I wanted him to initiate a conversation about his plan. I felt like the onus was on him, even if he was sick.
When I hadn’t heard anything, I texted again.
“Do you think you’ll be out next week also?”
“Yes, for the safety of others, it’s what I should do.”
I didn’t push him any further than that.
The second week in, I initiated the same text exchange.
“How are you doing? Do you think you’ll be back?”
“Better and yes.”
“Good to hear. How are you on supplies and stuff? Need any groceries or other essentials?”
That word had a whole new meaning now.
“No, sir. I’m good. I appreciate it, though.”
So when Monday came around, and I didn’t see him at the office, I checked my texts again. He had a history of texting me at like 6:46am to tell me he wasn’t going to make it.
But I didn’t see anything like that.
I called him.
It went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, Travis, just wondering if you’re on your way. Give me a call when you get this.”
And I texted him the same thing.
About an hour later, I circulated an email around the office saying that I hadn’t heard from Travis, and he wasn’t at work. “I’m worried, but I’ll let you know when I know more,” I wrote.
We didn’t hear from him that day.
Isaac asked if I wanted him to stop by Travis’s place on the way home. It wasn’t actually on the way home for him, but he did live way out in that direction.
“Probably not a bad idea. Just let me know what you find. And don’t go in if he’s still sick.”
But later that afternoon, before he could drive by, or knock on his door, or let me know what he found, or get infected, I got a call.
I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail. What I heard recorded on the other side sounded like it came from somewhere out in Mt. Washington where Travis lived, somewhere with rough reception.
“Hi, this is Alena. Travis got a call from you. I’m his sister…”
