to skip Career Day? Would she still be here?
Four houses away from mine, the Goodwins’ baby cried loudly, interrupting the silence and ending my what-if spiral. It wasn’t a normal cry, but a continuous high-pitched wail. Mrs. Goodwin and my mom were do-you-have-a-cup-of-sugar neighbors, but I didn’t know her well.
I continued passed the house, not seeing a single soul. Was it safe to be out alone? It was daylight but I couldn’t help thinking that if someone wanted to hurt me, there would be no one around to help. That realization was as worrisome as the flu. Freaked out, I turned around a few blocks from home and hurried back.
The baby still cried as I passed by the Goodwins’ house. The glass storm door was closed, but the wooden one behind it was wide open. I crept to the front and peeked inside. Most of the lights were off, giving the entranceway a gloomy air. I doubted anyone would hear the doorbell over the baby, but I rang it anyway, then jiggled the door handle. It was unlocked. A striped tabby cat ran to the door, staring at me with yellow-green eyes. Its plaintive meows combined with the baby’s bawling.
Something was wrong. But if the flu had infected the Goodwins, I didn’t want to risk being exposed. Using my cell phone, I called information for their number, then listened as it rang inside the house. The answering machine kicked in. “We can’t take your call right now . . .”
At the sound of the voice, the baby quieted for a moment. Then the sobbing began again, louder and more distressed.
Standing by the front door, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I considered dialing 911. But what would I report? A cranky baby?
“Mrs. Goodwin?” I called.
Still no answer. I turned, then took a few steps away from the house. This is none of my business. The wailing rang in my ears. It is not my problem. I counted to thirty, willing the frantic cries to stop. They didn’t.
Taking a deep breath, I returned to the door, opening it slowly. A flash of tabby stripes ran out past me, making me jump.
“Mrs. Goodwin?” I called. “Mr. Goodwin?”
The kitchen was empty. I waited for someone to come out, to ask me what I was doing. No one did.
I moved stealthily down the hallway, feeling like an intruder. But I couldn’t leave the baby now. The howling guided me into a bedroom on the right. The baby stood in the crib, his face mottled and red, his jumper damp. Behind his crib hung a sign with animal-shaped letters that spelled out his name: Tobias Kutchner.
“Hi, Tobias Kutchner. I sure hope you’re not sick. The flu doesn’t affect many babies, right?” I didn’t want to hold him, to come into contact with him, but I couldn’t exactly leave him alone again.
“We have to find your mommy. This room smells like you need a diaper change.” Summoning my nerve, I put my hands under his arms to lift him. Something squished under my fingers as I reached his back.
Poop. And lots of it.
Disgusted by the grossness, I put him back down. His screams reached a new decibel.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I said, more to myself than the baby. Grabbing a blanket from the crib, I created a barrier between his dirty body and my own. “We need to find a bathroom to clean you up, TK. Do you mind if I call you TK, little buddy?”
I started to carry him out. Two steps toward the door, I stopped babbling and froze.
Oh dear God.
In the corner of the room, Mrs. Goodwin sat slumped over in a rocking chair.
C HAPTER 13
Our emergency plans can handle an unexpected absenteeism rate of roughly 40–50% in critical sectors. We’re currently at 75%.
—Blue Flu interview, senior manager of the NJ Water Association
I stared at TK’s mother. The angle of her head and the bluish tinge of her ears told me she wasn’t napping in the rocking chair.
“Mrs. Goodwin?”
I thought about touching her wrist, checking her pulse, but even if I were willing to risk the germs, my hands were covered in poop.
Four houses away from mine, the Goodwins’ baby cried loudly, interrupting the silence and ending my what-if spiral. It wasn’t a normal cry, but a continuous high-pitched wail. Mrs. Goodwin and my mom were do-you-have-a-cup-of-sugar neighbors, but I didn’t know her well.
I continued passed the house, not seeing a single soul. Was it safe to be out alone? It was daylight but I couldn’t help thinking that if someone wanted to hurt me, there would be no one around to help. That realization was as worrisome as the flu. Freaked out, I turned around a few blocks from home and hurried back.
The baby still cried as I passed by the Goodwins’ house. The glass storm door was closed, but the wooden one behind it was wide open. I crept to the front and peeked inside. Most of the lights were off, giving the entranceway a gloomy air. I doubted anyone would hear the doorbell over the baby, but I rang it anyway, then jiggled the door handle. It was unlocked. A striped tabby cat ran to the door, staring at me with yellow-green eyes. Its plaintive meows combined with the baby’s bawling.
Something was wrong. But if the flu had infected the Goodwins, I didn’t want to risk being exposed. Using my cell phone, I called information for their number, then listened as it rang inside the house. The answering machine kicked in. “We can’t take your call right now . . .”
At the sound of the voice, the baby quieted for a moment. Then the sobbing began again, louder and more distressed.
Standing by the front door, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I considered dialing 911. But what would I report? A cranky baby?
“Mrs. Goodwin?” I called.
Still no answer. I turned, then took a few steps away from the house. This is none of my business. The wailing rang in my ears. It is not my problem. I counted to thirty, willing the frantic cries to stop. They didn’t.
Taking a deep breath, I returned to the door, opening it slowly. A flash of tabby stripes ran out past me, making me jump.
“Mrs. Goodwin?” I called. “Mr. Goodwin?”
The kitchen was empty. I waited for someone to come out, to ask me what I was doing. No one did.
I moved stealthily down the hallway, feeling like an intruder. But I couldn’t leave the baby now. The howling guided me into a bedroom on the right. The baby stood in the crib, his face mottled and red, his jumper damp. Behind his crib hung a sign with animal-shaped letters that spelled out his name: Tobias Kutchner.
“Hi, Tobias Kutchner. I sure hope you’re not sick. The flu doesn’t affect many babies, right?” I didn’t want to hold him, to come into contact with him, but I couldn’t exactly leave him alone again.
“We have to find your mommy. This room smells like you need a diaper change.” Summoning my nerve, I put my hands under his arms to lift him. Something squished under my fingers as I reached his back.
Poop. And lots of it.
Disgusted by the grossness, I put him back down. His screams reached a new decibel.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I said, more to myself than the baby. Grabbing a blanket from the crib, I created a barrier between his dirty body and my own. “We need to find a bathroom to clean you up, TK. Do you mind if I call you TK, little buddy?”
I started to carry him out. Two steps toward the door, I stopped babbling and froze.
Oh dear God.
In the corner of the room, Mrs. Goodwin sat slumped over in a rocking chair.
C HAPTER 13
Our emergency plans can handle an unexpected absenteeism rate of roughly 40–50% in critical sectors. We’re currently at 75%.
—Blue Flu interview, senior manager of the NJ Water Association
I stared at TK’s mother. The angle of her head and the bluish tinge of her ears told me she wasn’t napping in the rocking chair.
“Mrs. Goodwin?”
I thought about touching her wrist, checking her pulse, but even if I were willing to risk the germs, my hands were covered in poop.
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