Tampered by Ross Pennie

explained. “Phyllis Wedderspoon. Maybe you’ve met her already. Our chauffeur and Internet hound. And former Latin teacher.” He dipped his head and gave Natasha a look suggesting it was wise to watch your manners around Latin teachers.
    “She hates losing at bridge,” Professor Crabtree added with a chuckle.
    “And paying for Internet service,” Mr. Greenwood said. “She surfs online at the library, where it’s free.”
    It was surprising how quickly these two had changed their tone. Maybe that’s how you survived to almost ninety. A positive attitude gave you resilience. Natasha thought of her mother, only forty-six, prone to moping like a miserable crone. Mummyji could spend hours weeping on the sofa when Natasha refused to have dinner with one of the nerdy Indian guys the family had picked for her to sample.
    Mr. Greenwood started rolling toward the centre of the common room. “So, Natasha,” he called over his shoulder, “come and sit for a minute. Tell us what you’re up to.”
    She offered to carry Professor Crabtree’s sporty backpack as they filed behind the scooter, but he held it firmly and said, “No need, my dear. I’m fine as I am. Old age is contagious, you know. The more you let people do for you, the less you can do for yourself.”
    The three of them found a quiet corner. Professor Crabtree stayed standing until Natasha sat down, then invited her to describe how she approached her work.
    As a field epidemiologist investigating any outbreak, she told them, her job was to track down every symptomatic case in a cluster and determine the common exposures among the people affected — foods, water, objects, places, other people. You did a blitz of the cases and the environment, matched the two, and usually found the offending germ and the contaminated agent carrying it.
    Professor Crabtree massaged his knee with his palm, then winced as he shuffled his feet. “Now that the situation here has escalated, and we all seem to be at risk from an aggressive illness, what is your Plan B, Miss Sharma?”
    “Ideally, I’d like to list, and cross-reference, every morsel ingested by every resident in the past two months.”
    “Good Lord,” said Professor Crabtree. “My dear, you’re asking the impossible.”
    “I know. A person would have to be a savant to remember what they ate the day before yesterday, let alone last week or last month.”
    Professor Crabtree smiled and tapped the side of his head. “Most of us are no longer pros in the memory department.”
    “Speak for yourself, my friend,” said Mr. Greenwood. “Nothing wrong with my memory.”
    “Okay then,” said Professor Crabtree. “Tell us what you had for lunch the Thursday before last.”
    Mr. Greenwood scratched his chin, looked up at the ceiling, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.
    “There you are,” the professor said. “Albert Schweitzer said that happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory. You’ve got a bit of both.”
    Natasha’s gaze strayed to the painting of the soldier carrying the terrified child bundled in rags. She’d loved her university electives in art history more than any of the sciences she’d majored in. Her parents fretted that mooning over the paintings of dead artists could never be turned into a secure living. They’d insisted she continue with biology.
    “I see you noticed my painting,” Mr. Greenwood said, diverting the conversation from the competence of his memory. Had he noticed the work had set her heart racing, that it haunted and inspired her in the same breath? “What do you think of it?” he asked.
    The piece must have come from a high-class gallery, the sort of place that didn’t feature Trisha Romance. “It’s very moving,” she said. “Did you purchase it at an auction?” She’d always wanted to attend an art auction. They sounded exciting. And sophisticated.
    “Auction? Heavens, no. I painted it myself. Acrylic on canvas.” Mr. Greenwood