After unzipping the pack and putting it on the bed, I check my phone.
Hannah: Oh thank god. Things are getting really scary here. We can see people pulling other people from their cars on the street and hurting them. We’re so afraid of getting the virus that we aren’t ordering food anymore.
Pax: If you don’t hear from me, it might be because I’m in the air or I can’t charge my phone. I will be there, Han. I swear it.
Hannah: I know you will. I’m crying so hard. I love you.
Pax: I love you too. Stay safe.
I connect my phone to its charger and exhale heavily. This situation is still bad, but as long as Hannah and I are together, we can get through it.
Rolling everything so it fits tightly in the bag, I pack a change of clothes for myself and for Hannah. We don’t have any face masks, but I cut up several T-shirts to make rudimentary face coverings for all of us.
What else? I don’t know if I’ll have to clear airport security or not, but I’m so concerned about being able to find supplies that I add eight bottles of water to the bag. I grab a jar of peanut butter and a few first aid supplies after that. Every phone charger and power bank we have.
I need more food. If Hannah and her five bridesmaids don’t have anything to eat, they’ll be ravenous by the time I get to London. I pack cereal bars, crackers, and beef jerky.
My pack is full and I still have more than an hour to burn. I turn the news on the big screen in our living room, and I’m floored by what I see.
The president has declared martial law. Hospitals around the US are overwhelmed, the bodies of dead patients lining their hallways.
Scientists think the virus originated in the States because the effects are worse here, but it’s already gotten to lots of other countries, too. Europe and Asia are scrambling.
Money. I’m going to need money.
I have a small safe hidden in our pantry, where I keep around ten thousand dollars in cash in case of an emergency. This qualifies.
There’s no room in my backpack, so I put as much cash as I can fit into two small waist packs. I fill my pants pockets with more bills.
Finally, I get a text that the car has arrived. I run down the three flights of stairs, finding a man in a dark suit waiting at the door to the building.
“Pax Thatcher?” he asks.
Who is this guy? He’s not one of my dad’s people.
“Yeah.”
His stern expression relaxes slightly. “I’ll need to see your ID.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Roger Carone. Your father, Aldous, sent me to get you.”
I step out of the building’s front door and see Terry, one of my dad’s longtime drivers, waving at me from the driver’s seat of a black SUV.
“Terry knows who I am,” I say, going to the vehicle.
I get in the front passenger seat and Roger gets in the back seat.
“You okay?” Terry asks me as he pulls away from the curb.
“Not really.”
“I understand.”
“Is your family okay?” I ask him, remembering he has a wife and a young daughter.
“Jen and Angeline are safe. Thanks for asking.”
