The afternoon sun had barely moved a millimeter when Edward forced himself out of bed.
Laura's blood stayed in his head. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. He could have sworn he could see it—thick, red, and dripping on the sidewalk outside her front door. A few hours, that was all, and yet time had splintered. The quiet that followed her being removed by the CDC was not peace. It was expectation—like the air itself was waiting to break.
His muscles ached from stillness as he stood from the couch and moved quietly throughout the house. He hadn't turned the lights on. Not yet. Leaks of darkness seeped from corner to corner, shadows long and imprecise. He moved with care, sensing—not him—not something wrong. A creak where the floor shouldn't moan. An absence of silence in the hall where there should be no wind. He did not think anybody was home. But thinking did not know.
He approached the front door first. Still bolted. He peered through the peephole.
Across the street, in front of Laura's house, the broken yellow police tape fluttered lazily in the breeze. And faintly—just barely—he could still see the rusty smear on the sidewalk. Stained into the concrete like it didn't want to leave. The door still hung ajar, crooked on its hinges, and a single, torn plastic glove lay discarded on the porch.
Edward swallowed and backed away.
Then the back door—double locked. Windows? He made his way past each one, drawing the curtains tighter still, as if they might bar the world from entry. He no longer believed in the quiet.
The hallway outside his bedroom was particularly still. He peered into his bathroom. Nothing. Guest room. Still. Sam's old studio, where the desk was covered and the drawers remained untouched—it still retained the residual smell of the lavender oil she used to put in the vents. He lingered there a little longer than he should have, fingers resting on the doorframe, until the knocking interrupted the silence.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It wasn't a rough push. It was polite, even formal. But with this silence, it might as well have been a rifle shot. Edward stood rigid, caught his breath. A second knock, then a voice from outside the door:
"CDC, sir. Routine sweep."
Edward went to the door, hesitating. He swallowed hard, opened the bolt, and cracked the door to look at them.
Two of them—hazmat suits, totally sealed. One was holding a clipboard and an electronic thermometer. The other had a sealed medkit on his arm with vials. Both faces were concealed behind tinted visors, reflective as black water. Two soldiers stood behind them, out of close range, rifles slung but hands ready.
"Edward Harper?" the clipboard one asked. Her voice hummed faintly from the speaker in her mask.
He nodded.
"We're going door-to-door screening. Has anyone had close contact in the last 72 hours with an individual who's showing symptoms?"
Edward hesitated. "My neighbor. Laura. She was taken. This morning. She was bleeding."
The two hazmats shared a glance. The kind that didn't need words. The kind Edward had seen once at a hospital when a nurse realized the patient wasn't going to make it. One of them, the tall one, jerked something quickly across the clipboard.
"Did you touch her?"
"No," Edward answered too quickly. "No, I—I stood and watched from the window."
The woman nodded, then gestured to the man with the kit. "Temperature first."
They took his temperature—forehead. Beep. Normal.
"Do you consent to a quick blood draw?"
Edward blinked. "Do I have a choice?"
"You can refuse," the woman said, flatly. "But refusal will be documented. Additional monitoring may be mandated."
He held out his hand.
The man did not say a word. He simply swabbed Edward's finger, pricked it, and sucked a few drops into a small vial before sealing it in a pouch with a bar code.
"Results will be tracked," the clipboard woman said. "If there is anything unusual, you'll be contacted. Stay inside. Avoid contact. Follow emergency notices if they are activated."
She paused before backing away. "You've seen something. We can record that if you wish."
Edward slowed. "No. Just… what I said."
Neither of them pressed him further. They nodded and moved down to the next house, boots crunching gravel. The soldiers weren't even looking at him—they were scanning the windows. The rooftops.
Edward shut the door.
Locked it.
And leaned against the wall.
Laura had been taken this morning. Just hours ago, her blood had stained the sidewalk. The same suits had pulled her away like garbage—not a person. Now they came back, not even speaking. Not asking. Not even acknowledging the atrocity that had occurred right before their eyes.
He looked down at the small drop of blood still on his finger.
Something was wrong. Not merely sick individuals. Not merely containment.
Erasure.Systemic.
He stepped back into the kitchen and dropped water over his finger, leaning over the sink. The faucet sputtered twice before running. Far in the distance, another knock. Another house. Another neighbor.
Edward glared at the floor, unable to help but wonder how many more would show up next for Laura. How long before the clipboard came back—and didn't knock politely.How long before it didn't leave at all.