Page 17 of Sick(ness)

Addy wanted to argue, to say she could help, that he didn’t have to carry all of it alone, but the exhaustion hit her like a wave. The day’s tension, the cold, the fear, it all pooled in her chest until she could barely keep her eyes open.

She nodded instead, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Sawyer leaned back in his seat, scanning the perimeter one last time before switching off the engine. The silence that followed was immense, pressing in from all sides.

Outside, the wind swept faintly through the brittle grass, and something small, a piece of plastic or an old sign—tapped against metal in a slow, methodical beat. Addy’s heart tripped at the sound, but Sawyer’s steady presence beside her was grounding.

“Get some sleep,” he said quietly, his eyes still on the dark beyond the windshield.

She curled up in her seat, pulling her coat tighter around her, and tried to obey.

But even as her eyelids grew heavy, one thought kept looping in her mind: they weren’t alone in the world. But that didn’t mean they were safe in it, either.

* * *

A soft shake pulled Addy from her slumber. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was—the world seemed muffled, her thoughts sluggish and half-lost to dreams. Then Sawyer’s voice came low and steady through the dark.

“Hey. I need you to take over watch while I get some rest.”

She sat up too fast, the movement sending a jolt through her stiff neck and shoulders. Her legs cramped, protesting from being curled up for hours. She rubbed her eyes, trying to blink away the grit of sleep. The cab was still dark, lit only by the faint silver wash of moonlight filtering through the cracked windshield.

“What time is it?” she asked, her voice rough with fatigue.

“Two a.m.,” Sawyer said, shifting back in his seat. “We’ll start moving again at first light. I just need a few hours. Wake me if you see anything, or if anything seems off.”

Addy nodded automatically, though her mind was still heavy with sleep and slow. “Yeah. Okay.”

He didn’t waste time. Within seconds, he’d leaned his head back against the seat, one arm folded across his chest, and his breathing began to even out. Addy watched him for a moment, marveling at how quickly he seemed to fall asleep, as if he’d spent a lifetime learning to rest in short bursts, even in places where rest didn’t come easy.

She envied that.

Turning toward the window, she peered out into the dark. The world beyond the glass was still—a blanket of frost glinting faintly under the moon, the shapes of storage containers hunched like sleeping giants. Every sound seemed amplified in the quiet: the tick of cooling metal, the faint whistle of wind through the cracks, the steady beat of her own heart.

Her mind wandered, because it always did when the silence stretched too long.

She thought about her last day in her classroom.

* * *

The memory came in flashes: the sterile odor of hand sanitizer, the eerie glow of fluorescent lights, the way her students’ desks looked too big and too empty with only two kids sitting in them, Skyler and James, both pale, both scared.

After the announcement came over the intercom—Stay put. Await further instructions.—she’d done exactly that. They had waited. And waited. Hours had slipped by, the clock on the wall ticking toward the end of the school day, but no one came.

Then the noise started in the hall. Shuffling. Voices. A door slamming. She remembered stepping into the hallway and seeing the principal leaving, his tie undone, his face pale, his voice shaking as he told her to go home, to “get somewhere safe.”

Safe.

She had no idea what that even meant anymore.

Addy had walked the two kids out to her car, their little hands gripping hers as if they were afraid to let go. She’d driven them home one by one, quiet, careful, pretending she wasn’t terrified. The streets had already started to break down. Sirens wailed in the distance. People ran with grocery bags and boxes clutched to their chests. Others sat on the sidewalks, slumped over, too sick or too scared to move.

By the time she’d parked at her building, the air itself had felt wrong, thick and hot and buzzing with panic. She rushed inside, turned on the TV, desperate for answers. The words that flashed across the screen—QUARANTINE. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOME. FAILURE TO COMPLY IS A FEDERAL OFFENSE.—had burned themselves into her brain.

* * *

A sharp sound yanked her back to the present.

Sleet.