Ten.
Somewhere, somehow, it has already begun. But there will be a pause before it all really goes to hell, a breath before the plunge. Grocery store shelves are fully stocked with sanitizer, toilet paper, chocolate chips. The subway is full; people bumping, jostling, sticky fingers touching the same ATM screens, hands gripping the same train car poles. The hospitals, the schools, the galleries are unlocked, the restaurants and theaters full of life. The airport is not yet filled with fear.
Undetected, it has already begun to spread.
Nine.
Wuhan, China. A student sits on her bed, cocooned in a blanket, watching the news. She hasn’t left the apartment today, didn’t leave it yesterday either. She only goes out when she has to, a short trip to the downstairs cafeteria, and every time she wonders what she will bring back with her.
Other countries have been bringing their students home, but no one is coming for her, coming for the thousands of others like her. She is trapped here, in a foreign place, while the world cracks apart around her, panic choking out people’s humanity, everything churning like some sort of nightmare. No one has listened to their white-masked protests, to the pleas crying out from homemade signs. They say they do not have the means to get them out, that they are safer where they are.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re not. It doesn’t matter. Either way, she’s afraid.
Eight.
The church feels unsettled. Pews that should be full are now sparse, the people, dressed in crisp ties and neat dresses, sit separated by yawning gaps. When they greet each other, there is no hand shaking, no cheek kissing, only smiles and eyes, sullen eyes that say more than words could. We are still here, they say. Please, God, don’t take this too.
The church is an island of hope in the middle of a rising ocean. Some of them will find strength in the storm. Others feel their faith slipping as the wind begins to howl.
The candle flickers. The hymns waver; there are not enough voices to carry them. The cup is not passed. They listen to words, words that ought to be comforting, but not all of them find comfort. When they say goodbye, they only nod. The nods seem to say until next time. They do not say when next time will be.
Some of them know that God will show them through.
Some of them wonder if this is truly God’s will.
Hollow bells echo behind them as they walk despondently back onto the street.
Seven.
A man stares into the mirror, pink nosed and tired eyed, feeling a cough tickle the back of his throat. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. Shit, he shouldn’t have gotten onto that plane, but here he is, with a box full of tissues and a half-empty bottle of meds.
Stay home, they say. But he hasn’t missed a day of work since he started, and he’s not about to lose a paycheck. Some people might have that kind of luxury, but not him.
Go to the doctor, they say. But he hasn’t been to the doctor in years, has never had the money for that kind of thing. By God, who does? He doesn’t need to empty his bank account just to find out he’s got another damn cold.
Yes, that must be what it is. That’s what you get in the winter, after all. Just another damn cold. Besides, he’s only fifty-five. He’ll just swallow his pills, light another cigarette, maybe take a shower. And then he’ll get on with his life.
Six.
People are singing out of their windows, standing on balconies, and there is hope in the air. Spirits are lifting, neighbors are reaching out, and maybe, maybe this music can spread faster and farther than the sickness that has them trapped. Maybe it can envelop the world, bridge borders, scrape the sky.
Five.
A young mother, sitting on the kitchen floor, counting cans. Uncounted on the left, counted on the right, paper and pencil in hand, tally columns sorted into soup and tuna, peaches and beans. She stacks them in neat rows, metal edges shining in the flickering yellow light of the bulb above her, their bright wrappers too colorful for her eyes. Everything should be grey, grey, grey, not clementine orange and dish soap blue. She feels like a child in a candy store, counting pennies, building castles out of tin cans. Four. Eleven. Twenty-one. Nine.
She doesn’t know when the schools will close, only that they will. She has seen it coming, rolling across the country like a blackout, like a wave. Is it a matter of weeks? A matter of days? She can’t count the time they have left, can’t count the paychecks or even the meals. But she can count cans. Four. Eleven. Twenty-one. Nine. Whispered like a prayer. Like the answer to a prayer.
It isn’t enough.
But maybe she missed one. Maybe if she arranges them differently, somehow, there will be more. She just needs to count them one more time.
She picks up the first can and starts again.
Four.
The governor holds his speech in his hands, a speech that was delivered to him with his morning coffee after a short night of no sleep. He will read it in a few moments, and he knows that it will disrupt more than just the usual radio programs, knows that there is nothing perfect in his plan, that it could change in a day. He runs his fingers along his chin, feeling the rough prickle of stubble, before he remembers that he isn’t supposed to touch his face. He hasn’t shaved in a week. It’s easy to forget that sort of thing.
He knows people will be angry. People are always angry; that’s part of the job, when you’re a politician. He has to do what he thinks is best, has to be a leader, a role model.
All he wants is another cup of coffee.
They are only at the beginning of things. This will only get harder, he knows, and he will have to deal with it. People are standing together now. But will they stand together when it really gets tough? How long until it all falls apart?
As he steps up to the podium, he can already see his state breaking.
Three.
In the hospital, an old man is staring at colors: taped up get-well cards, bright green and yellow, pink and red, zoo animals and bubble letters crayon-drawn by his grandkids, the only color in the stark, white room. The hospital feels empty now, with nothing but the beep of his monitor and the occasional nurse, coming to check on him, to bring him another bland meal.
They explained the situation to him three days ago. They explain it again each time he asks. The doors are shut. There is no going in or out, because it is too dangerous. There will be no visitors. He understands why, but he still feels trapped. He expected to hate the beeping monitor, the food, the fussing doctors, but the loneliness is what is getting to him. Next time the nurse comes in, he will ask for another explanation, because an explanation means a conversation, even if it is one he already knows by heart.
Two.
People have stopped singing. They have shut their windows, pulled the blinds, too burnt out for any attempt at optimism. The street is a ghost town, watched by the scavenging pigeons and the mannequins staring blank-eyed out of store windows, dressed in displays no one wants to buy.
Litter skitters across the pavement, advertisements for cancelled events quiver in the breeze, decorating the electricity poles.
A light rain falls, but no one reaches for an umbrella.
The traffic lights change, oblivious to the fact that no one is watching.
One.
You stand next to the telephone. The apartment is empty. The street is empty. The world feels empty, and yet your chest is full of anticipation. You have played the phone’s ring in your head a hundred times, know its pitch, its volume, its pauses by heart. You are ready for it, but the room is full of silence, and you know that you will jump when the sound comes.
You aren’t expecting a call. No one has promised you an appointment, a conversation. You have no reason to be standing here, hands ready, running your words through your mind.
You aren’t expecting a call, and yet you still feel the pressure building, pressing against the bottom of your cold feet. It has been growing, climbing, and at any moment it will finally reach its peak, burst, come crashing down. This is it. Your heartbeat counts the seconds; you can feel it in your ears. A countdown.
You aren’t expecting a call, and yet you stand here. Waiting.
Somewhere, somehow, it has already begun. But there will be a pause before it all really goes to hell, a breath before the plunge. Grocery store shelves are fully stocked with sanitizer, toilet paper, chocolate chips. The subway is full; people bumping, jostling, sticky fingers touching the same ATM screens, hands gripping the same train car poles. The hospitals, the schools, the galleries are unlocked, the restaurants and theaters full of life. The airport is not yet filled with fear.
Undetected, it has already begun to spread.
Nine.
Wuhan, China. A student sits on her bed, cocooned in a blanket, watching the news. She hasn’t left the apartment today, didn’t leave it yesterday either. She only goes out when she has to, a short trip to the downstairs cafeteria, and every time she wonders what she will bring back with her.
Other countries have been bringing their students home, but no one is coming for her, coming for the thousands of others like her. She is trapped here, in a foreign place, while the world cracks apart around her, panic choking out people’s humanity, everything churning like some sort of nightmare. No one has listened to their white-masked protests, to the pleas crying out from homemade signs. They say they do not have the means to get them out, that they are safer where they are.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re not. It doesn’t matter. Either way, she’s afraid.
Eight.
The church feels unsettled. Pews that should be full are now sparse, the people, dressed in crisp ties and neat dresses, sit separated by yawning gaps. When they greet each other, there is no hand shaking, no cheek kissing, only smiles and eyes, sullen eyes that say more than words could. We are still here, they say. Please, God, don’t take this too.
The church is an island of hope in the middle of a rising ocean. Some of them will find strength in the storm. Others feel their faith slipping as the wind begins to howl.
The candle flickers. The hymns waver; there are not enough voices to carry them. The cup is not passed. They listen to words, words that ought to be comforting, but not all of them find comfort. When they say goodbye, they only nod. The nods seem to say until next time. They do not say when next time will be.
Some of them know that God will show them through.
Some of them wonder if this is truly God’s will.
Hollow bells echo behind them as they walk despondently back onto the street.
Seven.
A man stares into the mirror, pink nosed and tired eyed, feeling a cough tickle the back of his throat. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. Shit, he shouldn’t have gotten onto that plane, but here he is, with a box full of tissues and a half-empty bottle of meds.
Stay home, they say. But he hasn’t missed a day of work since he started, and he’s not about to lose a paycheck. Some people might have that kind of luxury, but not him.
Go to the doctor, they say. But he hasn’t been to the doctor in years, has never had the money for that kind of thing. By God, who does? He doesn’t need to empty his bank account just to find out he’s got another damn cold.
Yes, that must be what it is. That’s what you get in the winter, after all. Just another damn cold. Besides, he’s only fifty-five. He’ll just swallow his pills, light another cigarette, maybe take a shower. And then he’ll get on with his life.
Six.
People are singing out of their windows, standing on balconies, and there is hope in the air. Spirits are lifting, neighbors are reaching out, and maybe, maybe this music can spread faster and farther than the sickness that has them trapped. Maybe it can envelop the world, bridge borders, scrape the sky.
Five.
A young mother, sitting on the kitchen floor, counting cans. Uncounted on the left, counted on the right, paper and pencil in hand, tally columns sorted into soup and tuna, peaches and beans. She stacks them in neat rows, metal edges shining in the flickering yellow light of the bulb above her, their bright wrappers too colorful for her eyes. Everything should be grey, grey, grey, not clementine orange and dish soap blue. She feels like a child in a candy store, counting pennies, building castles out of tin cans. Four. Eleven. Twenty-one. Nine.
She doesn’t know when the schools will close, only that they will. She has seen it coming, rolling across the country like a blackout, like a wave. Is it a matter of weeks? A matter of days? She can’t count the time they have left, can’t count the paychecks or even the meals. But she can count cans. Four. Eleven. Twenty-one. Nine. Whispered like a prayer. Like the answer to a prayer.
It isn’t enough.
But maybe she missed one. Maybe if she arranges them differently, somehow, there will be more. She just needs to count them one more time.
She picks up the first can and starts again.
Four.
The governor holds his speech in his hands, a speech that was delivered to him with his morning coffee after a short night of no sleep. He will read it in a few moments, and he knows that it will disrupt more than just the usual radio programs, knows that there is nothing perfect in his plan, that it could change in a day. He runs his fingers along his chin, feeling the rough prickle of stubble, before he remembers that he isn’t supposed to touch his face. He hasn’t shaved in a week. It’s easy to forget that sort of thing.
He knows people will be angry. People are always angry; that’s part of the job, when you’re a politician. He has to do what he thinks is best, has to be a leader, a role model.
All he wants is another cup of coffee.
They are only at the beginning of things. This will only get harder, he knows, and he will have to deal with it. People are standing together now. But will they stand together when it really gets tough? How long until it all falls apart?
As he steps up to the podium, he can already see his state breaking.
Three.
In the hospital, an old man is staring at colors: taped up get-well cards, bright green and yellow, pink and red, zoo animals and bubble letters crayon-drawn by his grandkids, the only color in the stark, white room. The hospital feels empty now, with nothing but the beep of his monitor and the occasional nurse, coming to check on him, to bring him another bland meal.
They explained the situation to him three days ago. They explain it again each time he asks. The doors are shut. There is no going in or out, because it is too dangerous. There will be no visitors. He understands why, but he still feels trapped. He expected to hate the beeping monitor, the food, the fussing doctors, but the loneliness is what is getting to him. Next time the nurse comes in, he will ask for another explanation, because an explanation means a conversation, even if it is one he already knows by heart.
Two.
People have stopped singing. They have shut their windows, pulled the blinds, too burnt out for any attempt at optimism. The street is a ghost town, watched by the scavenging pigeons and the mannequins staring blank-eyed out of store windows, dressed in displays no one wants to buy.
Litter skitters across the pavement, advertisements for cancelled events quiver in the breeze, decorating the electricity poles.
A light rain falls, but no one reaches for an umbrella.
The traffic lights change, oblivious to the fact that no one is watching.
One.
You stand next to the telephone. The apartment is empty. The street is empty. The world feels empty, and yet your chest is full of anticipation. You have played the phone’s ring in your head a hundred times, know its pitch, its volume, its pauses by heart. You are ready for it, but the room is full of silence, and you know that you will jump when the sound comes.
You aren’t expecting a call. No one has promised you an appointment, a conversation. You have no reason to be standing here, hands ready, running your words through your mind.
You aren’t expecting a call, and yet you still feel the pressure building, pressing against the bottom of your cold feet. It has been growing, climbing, and at any moment it will finally reach its peak, burst, come crashing down. This is it. Your heartbeat counts the seconds; you can feel it in your ears. A countdown.
You aren’t expecting a call, and yet you stand here. Waiting.
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