“We do evacuation drills and infection simulations every month in order to minimize the loss of life in case of an outbreak,” said Kelly. “There are differences between offices, but they’re reasonably minor, and the central floor plan doesn’t change. Plus, they shuttle us to different offices once a year to run evacuation trials there, to make sure we don’t get too hung up on familiar landmarks.”

“What, like the white door, the white door, or, that old favorite, the white door?”

Kelly cracked a slight, brief-lived smile. “Something like that. It’s amazing how much two identical halls can differ when you work in them every day for a year or more. We have to learn to strip them down to nothing but the architecture.”

“Dhat mean you have entire installations memorized?” asked Alaric, suddenly interested. Kelly nodded. “Could you draw a map if I gave you some basic drafting software?”

“I think so. Why?”

“Because that may not be our last trip into the CDC, and I’d rather we didn’t need to count on an open phone line to get us out next time,” I said. Kelly’s attention switched back to me. “Alaric, get her that drafting software and see if you can find some public databases to check her work against.”

“The public databases won’t have the emergency access tunnels,” said Kelly.

“It’s still never a bad idea to have a backup plan.” I flashed her a toothy smile. “Besides, the public databases will have full blueprints of the general-access areas, and that should be enough to jog your memory. It’s not that I don’t trust you to tell us the truth as you see it, Doc. It’s just that after what we learned from Dr. Abbey, I don’t trust you not to leave things out if you think they’re too sensitive for us.”

Her expression hardened. For a moment, I thought she was going to challenge my authority. The others saw it, too: Alaric pushed his chair back from the table by a few inches, while Maggie and Becks both stopped moving around the kitchen, their attention going solely to Kelly. The house seemed to hold its breath. Finally, grudgingly, Kelly shook her head.

“Fair enough. We’re in this together, whether we like it or not. I guess we’re all going to need to learn how to trust each other.”

“There’s the spirit,” I said.

“I just have one question,” said Alaric. “How do we know the CDC isn’t going to run an audio comparison on your call and figure out that Kelly’s still alive? The last thing we need is another major raid.”

“No, the last thing we need is them figuring out where we are. Them figuring out that the Doc’s still breathing is second to last, at best.” I pushed my half-eaten potpie away and stood. “I guess we’ll need to keep an eye on the news feeds, see whether anything comes through accusing us of identity theft.”

“Can you steal your own identity?” asked Kelly.

“Guess we’ll find out.” Becks moved to take my seat as I stepped away. “Becks, you need to update as soon as you finish eating. I’m going to go and get the untransmitted footage loaded to the server. Alaric, I want you cleaning and screenshotting inside the hour.”

“Got it,” said Alaric.

“I’ve got a few poems and a bunch of garden pictures to put up,” said Maggie. “I’m officially still in mourning for Dave, which is why I’m all alone here in my big, spooky old house.”

“Good,” I said. “Doc, work with Mahir and get started on another post about whatever the hell psychology crap you’re writing about. See if you can come up with a plausible excuse for why we don’t have a picture of you. I don’t want anyone getting overzealous and looking for you in the public broadcast footage.”

“All right.”

I grabbed another Coke from the fridge and went back to the living room, where the computer wouldn’t argue with me, ask me questions, or do anything but help me clear my head. George was still quiet, her normally constant presence numbed to a dull ache at the back of my skull. It didn’t hurt, precisely. It just felt weird as hell.

The computer woke at the touch of a finger. I navigated the company log-in menus to reach my mailbox, which was comfortingly overfull of spam, date offers, naked pictures, suggestions of things that would make good articles, and the seemingly obligatory elevator pitches on places I should go and dead things I should bother. Sometimes it seems like the entire world is out to get me back into the field. What they don’t understand—and I can’t tell them—is that I’ve lost one of the integral traits of a good Irwin: I’m not having any fun. When I wind up in the field, it’s a chore to be survived, not an adventure to be relished. Without that little spark of gosh-golly-wow to drive me on, I’m essentially a dead man walking. Don’t think I don’t see the irony. George is the one who stopped breathing, but I’m the one who gave up on living.

The forums were as big a mess as I’d expected from Alaric’s report. The moderators were trying to be six places at once, and failing pretty spectacularly. I sat back for a few minutes sipping my Coke and watching the message notifications as they popped up next to thread after thread. The team currently on duty were all beta bloggers, trying to prove their credentials by doing the sort of shit job that George and I used to do back when we were still bylines on the Bridge Supporters site. In those days, we couldn’t think of anything we wanted more than to be out on our own, telling the stories we wanted to tell, not answering to anybody but ourselves.