happening.
“I can’t believe some people! When they know full well what could
happen.” Mom immediately snatched up Robin’s phone and called the hotline to
report the death. “Which is what they should have done themselves,” she said
when she’d supplied the authorities with all the details and hung up. She said
it a little defensively because Robin was glaring at both of us.
“You two are completely overreacting,” he said. “And you’re
causing real problems for the Johnsons.”
“That animal might well be infected. It needs to be disposed of
properly, Robin James, and you know it. Otherwise it could be a risk to all of
us,” said Mom.
“How? She’s dead! Is she going to turn into a vampire dog or a
werewolf?”
“When its corpse decays, the virus could get into the
groundwater.”
“Mom, we don’t get our water from a well in the back yard!”
“The contagion could still be spread —”
“A contagion it probably never even had,” Robin interrupted.
“— if something digs it up.”
“Like what?” Robin challenged.
“Like another dog — they do that, you know — or some foraging
critter. A raccoon or a coyote” — her voice rose because Robin was pulling a
contemptuous face and mouthing the phrase ‘foraging critter’ as if it was the
most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard — “or even a rat! The point is,
the laws are there for good reason, and this is against the law. And that,” she
said when Robin looked set to argue, “is the end of the discussion. The Fun Bus
will be here soon, get dressed please.”
“I am dressed,” said Robin.
“I meant, put on your suit and gloves and respirator, both of
you.” Mom stalked out, looking annoyed.
Robin snorted and rolled his eyes at me in disgust.
“She’s right, you know,” I said.
“She’s not. Nothing about this” — he swept a hand to indicate the
sealed window, the neighbor’s yard beyond, the protective gear lying waiting on
his bed — “is right .”
All three of us were suited up and waiting in the living room
when the Fun Bus’s horn sounded its usual perky tune. We were all tense — Mom
because she hated any of us leaving the safety of the house, Robin because he
was still angry that Mom had reported the neighbors, and me because I didn’t
much feel like seeing Bruce again.
Mom, Robin and I each took our turns in the decon unit, then emerged, blinking in the sunshine, and headed down the front path
toward the long Fun Bus parked in front of our house. Displayed on the side of
the bus was the familiar official advertisement about the need to repatriate
illegal immigrants to their countries of origin. In the photograph, a family,
perhaps Mexican or Puerto Rican, welcomed a long-lost member into their open
arms, above the slogan, “Support Immigration Reform, because families belong
together.”
But my gaze, along with Mom and Robin’s, and every person’s on
the bus, was fixed on the three official vehicles parked in the street in front
of the Johnsons’ front yard.
Two techs in full hazmat suits carried a sealed level 4 biohazard
bin to a white van, labeled Purification Centre Disposal Unit .
I guessed Maisy’s body was inside the bin, about to be taken off for testing
and incineration. The second vehicle was a police car. Its blue lights flashed
silently, while Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and their rosy-cheeked daughter were
escorted by more full-suited techs to the third vehicle, a minivan marked Q-Bay
Transport .
“Such overkill,” muttered Robin, turning toward the bus.
“It’s for their own safety,” said Mom. “And ours.”
I agreed with her — it was too dangerous to take chances with
something like this. But I also felt bad for the Johnsons, who were not in for
a fun time.
They would be kept isolated in quarantine until their test
results were confirmed. The blood samples took twelve days to culture, which
was a joke because, if you had contracted rat fever, you would be knocking
“I can’t believe some people! When they know full well what could
happen.” Mom immediately snatched up Robin’s phone and called the hotline to
report the death. “Which is what they should have done themselves,” she said
when she’d supplied the authorities with all the details and hung up. She said
it a little defensively because Robin was glaring at both of us.
“You two are completely overreacting,” he said. “And you’re
causing real problems for the Johnsons.”
“That animal might well be infected. It needs to be disposed of
properly, Robin James, and you know it. Otherwise it could be a risk to all of
us,” said Mom.
“How? She’s dead! Is she going to turn into a vampire dog or a
werewolf?”
“When its corpse decays, the virus could get into the
groundwater.”
“Mom, we don’t get our water from a well in the back yard!”
“The contagion could still be spread —”
“A contagion it probably never even had,” Robin interrupted.
“— if something digs it up.”
“Like what?” Robin challenged.
“Like another dog — they do that, you know — or some foraging
critter. A raccoon or a coyote” — her voice rose because Robin was pulling a
contemptuous face and mouthing the phrase ‘foraging critter’ as if it was the
most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard — “or even a rat! The point is,
the laws are there for good reason, and this is against the law. And that,” she
said when Robin looked set to argue, “is the end of the discussion. The Fun Bus
will be here soon, get dressed please.”
“I am dressed,” said Robin.
“I meant, put on your suit and gloves and respirator, both of
you.” Mom stalked out, looking annoyed.
Robin snorted and rolled his eyes at me in disgust.
“She’s right, you know,” I said.
“She’s not. Nothing about this” — he swept a hand to indicate the
sealed window, the neighbor’s yard beyond, the protective gear lying waiting on
his bed — “is right .”
All three of us were suited up and waiting in the living room
when the Fun Bus’s horn sounded its usual perky tune. We were all tense — Mom
because she hated any of us leaving the safety of the house, Robin because he
was still angry that Mom had reported the neighbors, and me because I didn’t
much feel like seeing Bruce again.
Mom, Robin and I each took our turns in the decon unit, then emerged, blinking in the sunshine, and headed down the front path
toward the long Fun Bus parked in front of our house. Displayed on the side of
the bus was the familiar official advertisement about the need to repatriate
illegal immigrants to their countries of origin. In the photograph, a family,
perhaps Mexican or Puerto Rican, welcomed a long-lost member into their open
arms, above the slogan, “Support Immigration Reform, because families belong
together.”
But my gaze, along with Mom and Robin’s, and every person’s on
the bus, was fixed on the three official vehicles parked in the street in front
of the Johnsons’ front yard.
Two techs in full hazmat suits carried a sealed level 4 biohazard
bin to a white van, labeled Purification Centre Disposal Unit .
I guessed Maisy’s body was inside the bin, about to be taken off for testing
and incineration. The second vehicle was a police car. Its blue lights flashed
silently, while Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and their rosy-cheeked daughter were
escorted by more full-suited techs to the third vehicle, a minivan marked Q-Bay
Transport .
“Such overkill,” muttered Robin, turning toward the bus.
“It’s for their own safety,” said Mom. “And ours.”
I agreed with her — it was too dangerous to take chances with
something like this. But I also felt bad for the Johnsons, who were not in for
a fun time.
They would be kept isolated in quarantine until their test
results were confirmed. The blood samples took twelve days to culture, which
was a joke because, if you had contracted rat fever, you would be knocking
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