Author: Sarah Klein

The birds are gone.
Last week, one small sparrow, digging in vain in the ashy ground.
Sue puts up pictures of birds around the compound to join the squirrels, rabbits, and foxes
tacked up.
Dave says we have to go. But there is still too much food to take with us, and there is no
guarantee of finding more.
Mary-Lou outside, vomiting, vomiting, vomiting. Her sobs are too loud. Someone finally guides
her back inside. Hushed conversation, a wail.
My hands are chafed from laundry. I go downstairs to find someone to trade tasks with. Dave
sits there, his head in his hands. He hears me, looks up. His face is streaked with tears.
I don’t know what to say, but he speaks first.
“It’s begun,” he says quietly. My stomach churns, flips. I grip the rail. I want to run.
Dave lifts his left arm. There is an ugly, scaly red rash twisting its way around it, from wrist to
shoulder. The first sign.
“I’m sorry,” I say, in almost a whisper. There’s nothing else to say.
Dave shrugs, stands up. Looks me in the eye. “Goodbye, Katie. You are well loved and
knowledgeable. Take care of everyone.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and turns. Shuffles down to
the lab.
We weren’t as close as the other village. But we don’t know. I wait for the sound of the bell, for
the beginning of skin checks, for the beginning of the end.
There is a picture of a blue jay on the wall next to me. I tear it down. Ball it up. Stuff it in my
mouth, so I won’t scream.