and fall, as if the pie slices had gone rancid and mold had crept over every surface.
At first, the administrators were reluctant to simply hand over control of their hospital to the CDC. However, a large donation from the federal government had bought enthusiastic cooperation. The top floor consisted primarily of conference rooms and offices. The next two floors contained various oncology wards. The patients had been moved without explanation or warning to either Northwestern Memorial or Rush University Medical Center on the West Side.
Most of the equipment had been moved to other parts of the hospital, leaving empty, sterile rooms. Dr. Reischtalâs precise footsteps echoed though the bare halls and rooms as he paced, waiting. He could not sleep because he could not pray.
So he paced.
And waited.
Â
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The walk to the CTA Red Line subway station at Balboa only took six minutes for LaRissa Devine, from leaving her classroom seat to thrumming down the subway steps. If she was lucky, and the train was running late, she could catch the 10:37 and get home to her mom, grandmom, and three siblings and be in bed by 11:30. She needed all the sleep she could get. The manager at the El Taco Loco branch knew damn well that she was one of the few employees he could trust completely, and needed her to get there early to start the prep work.
When she wasnât selling tacos and burritos that made a mockery out of Mexican cuisine, LaRissa was a student at Harold Washington City College, and her night class had just finished. She carried a heavy backpack; she always took every assigned book to every class. Her notebooks were filled with nearly every word out of her teachersâ mouths, and color-coded with neon highlighters. Post-it notes stuck out of the pages like some kind of medieval defensive castle architecture. She never missed a class.
She knew that some of her classmates whispered among themselves, wondering if she had some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder. She didnât care.
She slipped her card through the automated gate in the subway station and pushed on through. It was late, and no one was in the booth. She went down another flight of stairs. The escalator that rolled upstairs was frozen. It had been broken for almost two weeks.
She walked to the center of the station and sat on a bench, taking off her backpack and sinking gratefully against the wall. She was exhausted, but kept her eyes open. This time of night, it was better to sit where you could see anyone approaching you. The Balbo and Roosevelt subway stations were the end of the line for the whites, and the beginning of the line for a lot of blacks. This borderland effect could sometimes lead to trouble.
Anybody who said that Chicago wasnât segregated wasnât paying attention, or they were full of horse manure. Theyâd never ridden the Red Line south of Jackson, that was for sure.
Another reason her backpack was so heavy was because LaRissa carried her cousinâs U-shaped bike lock in the outside pouch. And it wasnât just for looks. She had no problem jerking it out and using it if any fool was dumb enough to try and mess with a studious black girl. Tonight, though, was quiet. She thought for a moment about whether she could take out her biology homework, and thought tonight it might be okay. Sometimes she worried if she looked vulnerable if someone saw her with her face in a book. Since most of the shooting and problems took place when the weather turned much hotter, she thought it would be okay. She wanted to get a head start on her homework.
She did not put in her earbuds. She wanted to keep her ears wide open, and looked up from the text often to make sure she was alone. She did not, however, check under the bench.
The bugs came bubbling through the cracks where the concrete floor met the tiled wall like clotted oil escaping from a pressurized pipe. They had smelled her breath from inside the wall, and it was
At first, the administrators were reluctant to simply hand over control of their hospital to the CDC. However, a large donation from the federal government had bought enthusiastic cooperation. The top floor consisted primarily of conference rooms and offices. The next two floors contained various oncology wards. The patients had been moved without explanation or warning to either Northwestern Memorial or Rush University Medical Center on the West Side.
Most of the equipment had been moved to other parts of the hospital, leaving empty, sterile rooms. Dr. Reischtalâs precise footsteps echoed though the bare halls and rooms as he paced, waiting. He could not sleep because he could not pray.
So he paced.
And waited.
Â
Â
The walk to the CTA Red Line subway station at Balboa only took six minutes for LaRissa Devine, from leaving her classroom seat to thrumming down the subway steps. If she was lucky, and the train was running late, she could catch the 10:37 and get home to her mom, grandmom, and three siblings and be in bed by 11:30. She needed all the sleep she could get. The manager at the El Taco Loco branch knew damn well that she was one of the few employees he could trust completely, and needed her to get there early to start the prep work.
When she wasnât selling tacos and burritos that made a mockery out of Mexican cuisine, LaRissa was a student at Harold Washington City College, and her night class had just finished. She carried a heavy backpack; she always took every assigned book to every class. Her notebooks were filled with nearly every word out of her teachersâ mouths, and color-coded with neon highlighters. Post-it notes stuck out of the pages like some kind of medieval defensive castle architecture. She never missed a class.
She knew that some of her classmates whispered among themselves, wondering if she had some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder. She didnât care.
She slipped her card through the automated gate in the subway station and pushed on through. It was late, and no one was in the booth. She went down another flight of stairs. The escalator that rolled upstairs was frozen. It had been broken for almost two weeks.
She walked to the center of the station and sat on a bench, taking off her backpack and sinking gratefully against the wall. She was exhausted, but kept her eyes open. This time of night, it was better to sit where you could see anyone approaching you. The Balbo and Roosevelt subway stations were the end of the line for the whites, and the beginning of the line for a lot of blacks. This borderland effect could sometimes lead to trouble.
Anybody who said that Chicago wasnât segregated wasnât paying attention, or they were full of horse manure. Theyâd never ridden the Red Line south of Jackson, that was for sure.
Another reason her backpack was so heavy was because LaRissa carried her cousinâs U-shaped bike lock in the outside pouch. And it wasnât just for looks. She had no problem jerking it out and using it if any fool was dumb enough to try and mess with a studious black girl. Tonight, though, was quiet. She thought for a moment about whether she could take out her biology homework, and thought tonight it might be okay. Sometimes she worried if she looked vulnerable if someone saw her with her face in a book. Since most of the shooting and problems took place when the weather turned much hotter, she thought it would be okay. She wanted to get a head start on her homework.
She did not put in her earbuds. She wanted to keep her ears wide open, and looked up from the text often to make sure she was alone. She did not, however, check under the bench.
The bugs came bubbling through the cracks where the concrete floor met the tiled wall like clotted oil escaping from a pressurized pipe. They had smelled her breath from inside the wall, and it was
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