I choke, my eyes watering, and Clara is there instantly, her hand finding mine, her grip a lifeline.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “Almost over.”
When it’s finally done, I feel drained, hollowed out. Dr. Thorne labels his samples with meticulous care, his movements precise and impersonal.
“We will begin the analysis immediately,” he says, as if he’s talking about a lab experiment, not a person’s life. “In the meantime, Sheriff Riley will escort you and Ms. Finch to your designated quarantine quarters. The bunkhouse. You are not to leave the premises for any reason. All meals will be delivered to you. We will be in touch.”
The walk to the bunkhouse is a surreal nightmare. The ranch has been transformed into a militarized zone. Orange plastic tape marks off a wide perimeter around the main house and barns.
Strange white tents have been erected near the edge of the property, and people in hazmat suits move like ghosts between them. The air hums with the low thrum of generators and the crackle of radios.
It’s a spectacle, just as Tex said. A horrifying public spectacle.
Ben Riley meets us at the bunkhouse door, his face grim.
“The boys cleaned it up for you,” he says, his voice muffled by his mask. “It’s the best we can do. I’m sorry, Sedona.”
Clara pushes the door open, and I step inside, bracing myself for a sterile, unfamiliar space. But what I find stops me in my tracks.
The bunkhouse smells… clean. Not like a hospital, but like home. Like lemon polish and fresh laundry.
The two sets of bunk beds are made with military precision, the corners sharp and neat. On the small table in the center ofthe room sits a pitcher of ice water, two clean glasses, and a plate of cookies that look suspiciously like Daisy Mae’s famous huckleberry bars.
There’s a stack of clean towels on one of the bunks, and a folded note on top of them. My name is written on the outside in Tex’s familiar, scrawling handwriting. I pick it up, my fingers trembling.
Thought you might need these. And the cookies. Daisy insisted. Don’t worry. Hope you feel better. —T.
The simple, kind gesture is my undoing. A single tear escapes, tracing a hot path down my cheek.
This is the pack. This is the care they offer—not clinical, but cookies and clean towels. It’s a messy, imperfect, and overwhelming love that I have no idea how to accept.
The door closes behind us with a heavy, final thud. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home is loud in the quiet room. We’re locked in.
Clara lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Well,” she says, her voice a little too bright. “At least the cookies are good.”
I sink onto one of the lower bunks, the mattress firm and clean. I look around the small, tidy room, a prison cell prepared with love.
I’m trapped here with a parasite, with my past, with three men who represent the best and worst moments of my life. I’m trapped, but I’m also… cared for.
The contradiction sits heavy on my chest. I’m here, and I’m alive, but I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.
And I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Billy
The huckleberry bar is a small,defiant piece of normalcy in a world that has gone completely insane. It’s crumbly and sweet, the taste of wild berries and sugar a familiar comfort.
Daisy Mae must have sent them over with Tex, a small act of kindness in the middle of this sprawling nightmare.
I’m leaning against the corral fence, chewing slowly, watching the spectacle unfold. The CDC team is a hive of activity, their white suits standing out in the dusty browns and greens of our ranch.
They’re moving our cattle, herding them with a quiet, unnerving efficiency that speaks of a complete lack of familiarity with animals. They’re not cowboys; they’re scientists in a lab.
Tex walks over, his usual swagger gone, replaced by a heavy, defeated slouch. He stops beside me, his gaze fixed on the same horrifying scene.
Dr. Petrova and her team are in the north pasture, separating the cows from their calves. The lowing of the mothers is a mournful, heartbreaking sound, a chorus of confusion and distress.
