He laid her in her bed upstairs and covered her with a thick comforter. Her teeth clacked together, the sound grating against his nerves like sandpaper.
“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay now,” he said, his voice barely carrying past his lips. Teresa made no sign that she heard him. Her teeth continued to chatter for long minutes, and Quinn checked her mouth to make sure she wasn’t biting her tongue or cheeks. After a time her shivering subsided, her jaw slowing and then stopping like some component of a greater machine that was winding down. If this was his window to the world, Teresa and his father and even the others (their reactions), the engine that was the world was grinding to a halt. Pandemic. That word sounded too much like panic. They could find a cure, would find a cure, but how long would it take for everything to become normal again? Months, maybe years, he answered himself.
He left Teresa’s room and walked the short distance down the hall to his father’s door. The bedroom smelled of urine, and when he checked the sheets, he found his father had released his bladder without waking. It took him a half hour to change the beddings, all the while James slept on, oblivious to his surroundings. When he offered the straw to his lips, the older man wouldn’t accept it. His teeth were ivory jail bars guarding his throat and Quinn was only able to dribble a bit of moisture into the side of his cheek. He went down to the kitchen and fetched another pitcher of ice water, making a quick trip around the ground floor to confirm Mallory, Graham, and Foster had all left. When he peered out of the kitchen window, there was a flit of light between the shifting trees that was Mallory’s home, there and gone like a firefly winking out. The house was so quiet without the bustle of the others, the silence nearly deafened him, and he had to resist the urge to turn on Graham’s iPod to break it.
In Teresa’s room he fed her water that she drank, sputtering at first and coughing, the same grinding noise coming from her lungs as his father’s. When she was resting again, Quinn found the cordless phone in his father’s office downstairs and dialed Portland General, the nearest hospital. He waited, the line taking an extremely long time to connect, and when it did, an automatic message came on telling him that all scheduling personnel were assisting other patients and to call again later, or if it was an emergency to dial nine-one-one.
He hung up, staring at the phone’s earpiece, listening to the quiet of the house. His fingers hovered over the buttons and then punched them, bringing the phone back to his ear. It rang once and then again, his stomach tightening with anticipation. Someone would answer, they had to, it was nine-one-one. He counted thirty-seven rings before hanging up only to call again with the same result.
The echo of the tolling line hung in his ear as he climbed the stairs again, his feet heavier than before. Fatigue swept over him, and he sunk into the chair beside his father’s bed, running his fingers over his face. He found the one smooth place on the right side of his brow that was free of imperfections. He rubbed the spot, glancing at his father’s sleeping form before staring at the floor.