“I thought—”

“We’re not going in there with you. Don’t be an idiot.” She held the unit out toward me. “Go inside, sit down, and start your test. You won’t be able to get out. You can’t hurt anyone.”

Relief washed over me, strong enough to make my shoulders unlock. “Thank you,” I said. I flashed Becks one last smile, aware that it was strained, and not really that concerned about it. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone. That was all I needed to know.

Becks smiled back. She was crying. I was sorry about that, but there was nothing I could do about it. So I steped forward to take the testing unit from Dr. Abbey’s hand and walked past her into the darkened isolation room.

The door swung shut behind me, the locks sealing with a hydraulic hiss that went on long enough to make it clear that this wasn’t casual security. This was the real thing. The hissing stopped and the overhead lights clicked on, illuminating a room about the size of my bedroom back when George and I still lived with the Masons. The walls were painted a shiny, neutral beige, and there were three pieces of furniture: a narrow cot against one wall, a metal table bolted to the floor, and a folding chair. There was a blanket and a small pillow on the cot. Make the condemned as comfortable as possible, I guess.

I wasn’t interested in comfort. I walked to the chair and sat down, placing the testing unit on the table in front of me. It seemed to stare back accusingly, like it didn’t understand why I wasn’t getting on with it already.

“It’s not like this is important or anything,” I said sourly, and unfastened my gloves, dropping them on the table. Blood had run down my left arm and onto the hand, crusting under my nails. I looked at it and shuddered, wishing there were some way to wash it off. After I amplified, I probably wouldn’t care, but until then, I’d know it was there. I flexed my fingers, checking my joints for stiffness, and turned my attention to the testing unit.

It wasn’t a model I’d seen before—if anything, it looked like the pictures of Dr. Patel’s original design, the one that just measured your viral levels but didn’t give you real-time results, and definitely didn’t upload anything. I picked it up, checking it for lights, and didn’t find any. Apparently, once I was in the isolation room, I didn’t need to know whether I was infected or not. I scowled. “Isn’t this just dandy?”

“Get it over with,” said George, beside me.

I jerked my head up, looking for her. She was nowhere to be seen. I scowled more. “I don’t exactly feel like rushing right now.”

“The results won’t change if you wait.” Her voice came from the other side this time. I somehow managed not to look. I just sighed.

“Can you just appear already?”

“No. I’m sorry, but that’s your choice, not mine.”

“Okay. Right. Well… if you won’t appear, will you at least stay?”

I felt the ghost of her hand brush the back of my neck, there and gone in an instant. “Until the end. I promise.”

“Okay,” I said, and popped open the lid on the unit. “One…”

“Two…”

I slammed my hand flat on the metal pressure pad, triggering the needles to start their business. They bit deep, and I hissed, biting my tongue against the pain. I thought amplification was supposed to make this sort of thing easier. I didn’t feel any difference at all. Blood tests always hurt, but this one was worse than most, maybe because the unit was so primitive.

When the last of the needles disengaged, I pulled my hand away. The test unit beeped once and was silent. No lights, no alarms, nothing to indicate whether I’d passed or failed. Not that I really needed the confirmation that I was infected—“Get a bite, say good-night,” as they said when I was in training—but it still would have been nice. You were supposed to see your results. That was how the testing worked.

“Hey.” George put her hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you go lie down? You’re exhausted.”

I shrugged her hand off. “No, I don’t want to sleep through this. If this is the end of me being me, I don’t want to miss it.” A thought struck me, and I chuckled bitterly. “I can’t be too far gone if I’m still hallucinating you, can I? You’re a pretty complicated delusion. Zombies probably can’t manage this quality of crazy.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

She fell silent, and so did I. I was too tense to carry on a conversation, even with a dead person who lived only in my head. I’d just keep trying to pick a fight, and she’d keep trying to stop me, until we wound up screaming at each other and I spent the last minutes of my conscious life arguing with the one person I least wanted to argue with. I just wanted to know that she was there, and that I wasn’t going through this alone.

So I stared at the test unit instead of talking to her, willing it to develop lights and tell me what I needed to know. All I needed was for it to confirm that my life was over. Nothing difficult. Nothing any f**king toaster couldn’t manage these days.

I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the test unit, feeling my throat getting dryer and waiting for the other symptoms to set in. The difficulty breathing, the sensitivity to light, the murkiness of thought—all the little dividing lines that separated human from zombie. Dryness of the throat was only the beginning, and my training was extensive enough to tell me exactly what the progression would be. Every little step along the way.