Hmm. Gabriel played with the button a bit, unsure why it wasn’t working properly. It wasn’t coming loose. He tried it a different way. No, it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t fit through the hole. His hands became slippery with sweat. He pushed the button left, right, up, and down. Goddammit, what’s wrong with this thing? How could they design a button-down so ridiculously that you can’t even open it? Idiot designers, idiot button, idiot—

No, it wasn’t the button’s fault. He’d worn the shirt before. He’d unbuttoned the shirt before with no problems whatsoever. Gabriel continued trying to force the little plastic circle out of the hole, perspiration running down his face. No, it wasn’t the button’s fault. It was his fault.

His fault, yes. Because he was the idiot who couldn’t remember how to pop open a goddamn button.

He pushed it, forcefully trying to shove it through the hole. It wouldn’t work. Left. Right. Up. Down. It was insane. He couldn’t believe that he’d lost such an easy ability, so suddenly, with no warning.

His stomach felt queasy. His heart raced faster and faster. There he was, issuing demands and trying to cure a superbug, when he couldn’t even unbutton a damn shirt. Goddammit…

Gabriel stopped and looked down at the button that was torturing him. He forced himself to relax. His heart rate settled back to normal. After a few seconds, Gabriel tried the button again. It popped out of the hole easily.

Gabriel reached into the secret compartment of his briefcase and pulled out the sample of Matthew’s blood. It didn’t look unusual, but that might change once he put it under the lens. He opened a notebook and clicked his pen.

He got to work.

Chapter 17:

Multiplicity

Gabriel slumped over his desk, his lamp casting a yellow rectangle upon the wooden surface, which only solicited more questions. He was exasperated. The answers that earlier that day had seemed as easy to pluck as a newborn flower had grown deep tangled roots, clinging to the ground and resisting his grasp. He pushed his new microscope away, unable to stand the sight of it.

He needed a break. It was frustrating to aspire to such an ambitious goal while working against the clock of one’s own mental degradation. He was constantly sidetracked and distracted, especially by the antics of his insomniac roommate, who apparently never slept.

It was eleven thirty at night, and throughout the evening, Bernard had treated the call button like the trigger of a submachine gun. Though oddly likeable, he was possibly the most distracting roommate Gabriel had ever had. The man’s constant I-want-this-no-I-want-that-yes-no-not-that dementia symptoms were like a postmodern exaggeration of the human condition. The entire night had been a chorus of Bernard’s requests, repeated over and over, as nurses raced in and out of the room to advise him to take it easy on the sugar.

“Fruit punch.”

“Pain pills.”

“Fruit punch.”

“Chocolate pudding.”

“Two chocolate puddings and two vanilla puddings.”

“Pain pills.”

“Scratch my back, please.”

“Fruit punch.”

Gabriel leaned over the microscope again. He examined the constantly mutating black cells in the blood sample, but his eyes had become droopy. Back when he was younger, that would never have happened. He had often spent entire days so invigorated by his work that sleep and food seemed like vague notions, but age had changed him. He’d stared at the blood sample for hours, bewildered by the way that the virus completely changed properties from one moment to the next. He had nothing to show for the day’s work, and he was sleepy, hungry, and thirsty.

“Hi there, Bernard,” Harry Brenton said from the doorway. “Sorry it took me so long to answer the light, sir. Would you like some ice water, maybe? I’m passing it out to everybody right now.”

“Fruit punch!” Bernard cried.

“Um, sir. You know that diabetes is—”

“No, not diabetes. Fruit punch.”

“Bernard, if your blood sugar is—”

“Okay. Ice water. Thank you.”

Harry pushed his cart into the room. As the wheels rolled along the linoleum floor, the ice inside each of the pink plastic cups on the cart clinked in a way that made Gabriel’s mouth water. He noticed that Harry’s white scrubs had several dark stains, which was odd since Harry’s uniform was normally spotless. The boy’s face was damp with sweat, and he was breathing heavily.

“Hello, Harry,” Gabriel said.

Harry held out a pink cup. “Good evening, Mr. Schist. Would you like some ice water?”

“Okay.” Gabriel smiled. “Thank you, Harry. But, honestly? What I could really use is some… uh, some company.” Gabriel choked a little on the last word. He felt humiliated at having to admit that he, the man of science, the introvert of introverts, actually felt lonely. Loneliness made him pathetic.

“Yo, Harry!” Natty Bruckheimer bellowed in her high-pitched battle cry. “Get back out here, ya nerd!”

“Sorry, Natty,” Harry called back. “I’m just—”

“Stop wasting your time chitchatting, dude. We’ve got work to do!” Natty stomped away, her footsteps causing the walls to shudder.

Harry bit his lip, and his shoulders slumped. Even in the dead of night, the sound of multiple call bells rang through the corridor, glowing in the dark hallway like flashing Christmas lights. “I’m sorry. I have to get back out there.”

Gabriel rubbed his eyes. “Busy night, I gather?”

“Yes, sir. You could say that.” Harry blew out a breath. “It’s insane. We’re so short staffed. Over thirty folks live on North Wing alone, and they have only one nurse on the medcart, while only two LNAs do all the personal care for every resident on this floor. And when my only help is someone like Natty, who just doesn’t care about anyone but herself, it’s like working alone. It’s like—” Harry stopped and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking like that.”

Gabriel peered at the doorway, worried that Natty might reappear. “Harry, you’re one of the best people they have here. Don’t let anyone make you think differently. It’s the hard work of people like you that keep this place together.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harry blushed. “But you folks deserve better than this.” He waved toward the hall then left the room.

Gabriel took a sip of his ice water. Before he could resume working on his research, the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver, anticipating the cold greeting of an investment banker from an earlier time zone, or maybe Medicare, or a life insurance agent who didn’t respect other people’s bedtime hours. “Hello?”

“Dad?” she said.

Melanie. Gabriel’s heart leapt to his throat. His eyes filled with tears before he even breathed a word. “Hi, Melanie. God, it’s so good to hear from you.”

“Hi, Dad.” She let out a gentle, nervous little laugh, the same laugh she’d had since she was a girl. “I’ve missed you, old man! Sorry it’s been so long since I stopped by. I feel guilty. Sorry for calling so late. I know you’ve always been a night owl, but—”

“I miss you too, Melanie. How are you? How’s Bill?”

Silence. Gabriel checked to make sure the line wasn’t dead. Then, a realization hit him. A tender ache passed through his chest. “Oh. You and Bill are divorced. I forgot. I’m sorry, Melanie.”

“It’s not your fault. How are you doing, Dad? Are you okay?”

He stared at the dark window. In the reflection, he watched Bernard shuffle to the bathroom. Realizing that he might be taking too long to respond, he blurted, “Busy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m researching the Black Virus. I’m trying to find a cure.”