Page 59 of Sick(ness)

That afternoon, her phone buzzed with Marcy’s name flashing across the screen. Marcy, a nurse at the small-town hospital fringed by cornfields, was always upbeat. But when Addy answered, her friend’s voice trembled like a leaf in a storm. “Addy, I don’t know what this is,” she said, her words clipped between ragged breaths. “It’s not just the flu. They wake up screaming. They batter at the door. We’ve got to restrain them—and then they go… blank.”

Addy forced a laugh that sounded brittle against Marcy’s panic. “You’re exhausted,” she said. “Get some rest.”

But Marcy didn’t laugh. She whispered, “There are government people here—suits and badges, but not the CDC. Nobody says who they work for. They’re filming everything.”

The next morning, Addy drove through a gray dawn to the school where she taught. The hallway, normally a riot of lockers slamming and sneakers squeaking, seemed cavernous and hollow. Only seven students sat at their desks, faces drawn and eyes too wide. The principal’s latest memo, pinned to the bulletin board under a spidery header, urged relentless sanitizing, strict distancing, and zero handshakes. Addy lined up bottles of disinfectant on her desk like a row of soldiers—bleach spray, alcohol gel, wipes — hoping to inject a measure of levity into her trembling hands.

By the week’s end, three more desks sat empty. One of those children never returned. His locker door stood ajar, a red backpack hanging by one strap as if waiting to be claimed. When Addy heard the news at day’s end, she sat behind the wheel of her car in the school parking lot, headlights cutting swaths of light through drifting dust motes, and wept until her cheeks were wet and her shirt clung to her damp skin. He was bright and funny—his only worry was math homework. How did you explain a world spinning out of the orbit you knew?

That same evening, her mother’s voice crackled over the crack in Addy’s cellphone connection. Houston sounded distant, impossibly large. “They’ve locked us inside,” her mother whispered, each word coated with fear. “They say it’s for our safety. But, Addy… it doesn’t seem like safety.”

Addy pressed her palm to her forehead. “I’ll come down soon,” she promised, her voice trembling with false confidence. “It’s just the flu. They always figure it out.”

Only they hadn’t.

* * *

The fire crackled softly. Sawyer shifted in his sleep, muttering something low and indecipherable.

Addy watched him for a moment, her chest tight. Perhaps none of them had wanted to see it. Perhaps that caused the rapid descent; no one believed it would ever happen.

She turned her gaze back to the window, snow still swirling beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, the world was still falling apart. But in here, for this moment, it was quiet.

* * *

Addy let Sawyer sleep far longer than he’d told her to. Two hours had come and gone, then three, then four. But every time she glanced at him, stretched out near the fire, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths, she told herself he needed it.

It wasn’t as if there was much to do anyway. The world outside was buried and still, the snow muffling everything into silence. No movement beyond the window, no sign of danger. Just the soft crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of Sawyer’s breathing.

She sat cross-legged near the hearth, the gun resting beside her, and let herself simply watch him.

And something about that undid her a little.

Addy experienced a mix of emotions she couldn’t sort through fast enough: fear, protectiveness, and something deeper that scared her more than any stranger in the woods ever would. It wasn’t just worry for her own safety anymore. It was him.

The thought of losing Sawyer, of waking one day and finding his side of the bed cold, made her chest ache. Not due to her thinking she wouldn’t make it without him, but because she lacked the desire to. This was crazy. Who falls in love this fast? But maybe not being promised tomorrow pushed her to be more honest with herself. She didn’t know exactly.

She traced her fingers over the worn fabric of the blanket he slept under, her touch light, almost reverent. The emotions blooming inside her were new, raw, and impossible to name without saying too much. She’d never been the kind of woman who believed in falling for someone quickly, let alone someone in the middle of an apocalypse.

It wasn’t infatuation. It was something steadier, like gravity pulling her toward him no matter how she tried to resist.

She wanted to tell him. To ask if he sensed it too, that strange connection that had formed somewhere between fear and survival, between quiet nights and shared danger. But the words stayed stuck in her throat.

What if he didn’t feel the same? What if this was just circumstance, two desperate people clinging to warmth because the world had gone cold?

The uncertainty stung more than she wanted to admit.

Sawyer shifted in his sleep, muttering something under his breath. His hand twitched toward the space where his rifle usually lay before relaxing again. Addy smiled faintly. Even asleep, he was half-ready for battle.

“I’ll keep you safe,” she whispered, barely audible. “Just this once, it’s my turn.”

The fire popped softly in response, the sound small but grounding. Addy leaned back against the wall, letting her eyes drift to the window and the quiet white beyond.

* * *

Sawyer woke with a start. For a split second, he didn’t know where he was: the smell of smoke, the soft crackle of the dying fire, the low groan of the wind outside. Then it came back to him, sharp and clear. The ranger station. The storm. Addy.

He sat up slowly, blinking against the dim light. The fire had burned low, casting the room in long shadows. Through the frost-covered window, night had settled deep and silent, the snow outside reflecting faint traces of moonlight.