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Warren's plane was going to be an hour late. It was five when I got inside the terminal; three hours stretched like eternity. I was too tired to do more than buy a book and a newspaper and then find a place where I could sit in peace. No food, I thought, shivering again.

Orange juice. I sat in the restaurant thinking about Greg, about yesterday, how he had driven me home. What he had said. Blood contact between an O and anyone else, airborne possibly after an A became infected. I remembered the Band-Aid on his chin, another Band-Aid on Warren's knuckle. How Warren had wept, not because of the work, but because he had struck Greg, his mentor, his father, his god.

I knocked over my orange juice when I attempted to lift the glass, and I stared at the spreading pool until the waitress's voice made me start. "You want another one?" she asked.

I fled to the restroom and studied my face in the mirror. Bloodless. It's the flu, I told myself. Just the flu. My fingers were tinged with blue under my finger-nails, my palms were drained of color.

I know I talked to someone in Atlanta, but I can't remember how it came about. There's a vague memory of someone else punching numbers from my credit card. I must have asked for help. I had to go through so many people, wait so long before someone who knew something came on the line. "Is it airborne?" I asked, and he had many questions, which I must have answered. He kept asking, "Are you there? Are you all right? Can you hear me?" I know he said, "Stay right where you are. Don't move from the phone. We'll send someone to help you."

Why didn't I wait for Warren? I should have waited for him, but I didn't, and then I remember, they would have come for me, and someone else would have met him and taken him somewhere. I think of all the people I was with in the restaurant, in the lounge, in the vast waiting room, buying a newspaper, a book, the shop where I bought the tape recorder I'm using, just walking around, in the parking lot ... I forgot to tell the voice on the phone that I had stopped to buy gas, another contact.

I had to leave the phone because someone else wanted to use it, an angry man who told me to move my ass. I walked away from the phone and I stopped to buy the tape recorder, and then I kept walking, out to the lot, to my car, and I drove here. That much is clear in my head. As long as I don't try to move, or lift anything, I don't even feel too bad, just so tired, and so heavy. The oddest thing is the lack of coordination in my hands. I fumble with things, drop them; I can't even manage the key in the ignition any longer.

I told the man how it happened. Warren got the viroid when he hit Greg. He used my razor the next morning and I used it later; we both always nick ourselves shaving. So simple.

They will spread their nets and try to catch everyone who was in the airport this evening, people flying off to Denver, Chicago, England, Hawaii ... They will scoop up everyone at school, all my classes, my friends, committee members. My children.

I can't weep now. I must be dehydrating too much. At first I thought Greg's way would be mine. I would drive to my old house and arrange a great fire and at the last minute set it off, but I won't burn myself. They'll want to know what damage was done; they may even find a clue to help someone. Or maybe, without even thinking it through, I realized they would come to the house.

The house lights appear to be dancing through waves of water. The storm is so intense now my voice sounds faint to my own ears. I don't even know how much I've said for the tape recorder, how much I have dreamed. The dreams are more real than reality. The car rocks, and the trees thrash about. I wish I could see them, but it's enough to know they've seen this before many times. Maybe they like it as much as I do.

"Can we sleep in the loft, Mom?" Mikey yelled, racing to the stairs.

"Well, sure. That's where I slept. Good enough for me, good enough for you."

I shooed them all