The man driving stopped the car.

His female companion was looking at the address on a piece of paper. "It's a little further," she said, looking toward a run-down house about half a block further on.

"We'll suit up here and walk."

"We'll scare the neighbors," she argued.

"You seen any?"

She looked around. There was an unusual quiet in the area—no dogs barking, no kids playing. Not even any birds overhead. Out in the middle of the street was a bike, lying on its side, the front wheel spinning slower and slower until it finally stopped. She shrugged agreement.

They got out, and were suiting up as the police cars started to arrive.

The man held up his hand to them and they stopped short, parking so to block further access to the street. He could hear sirens in all four directions and knew they were making a circle around the house.

"Look, they're all wearing their masks," his companion said, surprised. "Usually there's a few who think they're Harry Callahan."

He wasn't surprised to see that the police were all wearing gloves and hospital masks, though. One of them must have seen one of the victims, and in a tight-knit community like the police force, the only thing that spread faster than gossip was useful information. And gossip spread damn fast.

The two were now in full protective garb, looking more like Martian explorers than medical examiners. They walked down to the house and on the front porch they found what was left of a monitoring device—the ankle bracelet. Next to it were dozens of tubular keys and some tiny implements.

"Locksmith tools," the woman guessed.

Suited up as they were, it took a long time to get inside the house.

"Watch that hole," the man warned his partner.

"Got it."

In the hallway, they found Pickles, lying on his side, dead. They knew the pet's name had been Pickles from its rabies tag.

Parts of the animal were turning into sludge. "Dog, or cat?" the male examiner wondered, prodding it with a broom handle.

The other examiner was squeezing past a bookshelf. "Kitchen in here," she said.

He followed her in. In the center of the table lay a check, and a note. The check was made out to the City Council of Latham Acres, in the amount of $2,500. The note said only, "Good luck cashing the check."

Both were in the same handwriting.

"How did he get permission to go home?"

"We assume the emergency room staff said it was okay."

"And then you called him at home. A follow-up call?"

"Yes."

"And you warned him about not leaving?"

"Of course."

"He promised to stay put?"

No one answered the medical examiner's question. He sighed. "What did he sound like on the phone?"

"Sounded old," one of the clinic staff offered. "He kept sneezing, and he laughed a lot. We did tell him about the fine," the employee said defensively. "And he has a monitoring bracelet on."

"Had," the examiner corrected.

"Can we ask a question?"

At first, he simply glared at them. Then he sighed again and waited. He knew what was coming.

"What happened at the emergency room? What happened to the people there?"

"They made some mistakes. First they thought it was SARS, so they followed the procedures. But a couple of hours after our carrier left the building, the emergency room team… Well, they started coming apart like cheap suits. Nine people just fell apart, like in some kind of horror movie."

The man in the alley was looking out towards the street as two police cars raced past. He ducked behind a big dumpster until they were gone.

He came back out and looked down the street. It was early; only a few other people were out. He went into a McDonalds, and had some nice coffee and a remarkably bland Danish. After he was finished eating, he used the napkin to clean off his face and hands. His nose was bothering him, and his eyes were red. He left the tray on the table and walked back outside.

When Jasmine Lee Anne Brooks noticed the tray, she came from behind the counter and dumped the Styrofoam cup and plate in the trash. Her hand touched the napkin, but only for a moment. Then she went back behind the counter and filled the cup dispensers.

The red-eyed, runny-nosed man passed a flower shop and a dry cleaner as he wandered around. He didn't know where he wanted to go. The library was nearby, but it didn't open till ten. He was very familiar with the schedule. They knew him at the library, knew him well.

They all called him "Doctor" behind his back at the library. At first, they thought he might actually be a retired doctor, because whenever he forgot to log off the library computer, his screen contained information about cancer, and clinics, and sometimes articles about the politics of health care. But as one of the youngsters who worked part-time shelving books had said, "No way. Not with them cheap-ass clothes." Still, the nickname stuck.

He was walking in the general direction of the library when he came to a street where school children crossed in the mornings. There was an old black man sitting in a lawn chair, his big red sign leaning against his knees.

The crossing guard looked up at him. "Need any help crossing?"

"No thanks," he said, patting the man's shoulder gently. "I think I'll make it."

He crossed the street and passed the school, running his hand along the bars fencing in the playground as he strolled by. He was two blocks past the school when he heard the sirens.

A car squealed to a stop back at the crossing guard's station. Even from two blocks away, he could make out the black man pointing in his direction. With another squeal of tires, the patrol car leapt across the traffic and followed him.

He just kept walking.

The car pulled alongside. "Are you Raymond Devonshire?" it screamed at him. The car must have had a loudspeaker built into it somewhere.

He answered with mock courtesy. "Why, yes. Yes, I am."

"You were told to remain at home!"

"I went for a walk."

"I can see that! Why don't you do us both a favor, and sit down on the curb."

He started to sit.

"Up a little. Out where I can see you."

As he complied, he said, "If there's a fine, you'll find my check on my kitchen table."

"There'll be an ambulance along here in a minute," said the voice from the car.

People were coming out of their houses and looking at Raymond; when the squad car told them to leave, they just moved back a little. Raymond sneezed twice, both times facing in the crowd's direction.

The cop had to ask it. "Why the hell didn't you stay home?"

"I offered." Raymond replied softly.

And he had offered. He'd said he'd stay home for some money, or if they'd take care of his co-pay on his medications. He'd offered that, and they'd replied with the threat of fines and quarantine. Then he'd asked if they knew where he could get an oncologist, one who accepted people without money. His last oncologist was closing off the clinic patients. He was right in the middle of treatment, and now he had to make other arrangements, and he thought maybe he was getting suicidal, but he wasn't sure…

"What are they gonna do with me?" he asked.

"Shoot you in the head and bury you in lime," the cop muttered. Then he pushed the button to trigger the loudspeaker. "We're going to get you the best care possible," he said loudly, so everyone could hear.

"For the cancer, too?"

The cop shrugged. He didn't know.

The ambulance had arrived. It stopped nearby, its occupants jumping out and struggling into red plastic suits. The sight of biohazard suits finally convinced the spectators to obey the police and go home. Some were walking very quickly.

The red plastic suits were coming closer. "Where've you been today?" one of them asked.

"Went to a rally in support of socialized medicine," he answered.

One of the men in red said into his radio, "See if there's been any rallies this morning. We're west of the highway; he's been on foot."

"How come," Raymond asked them, "when it was just me going to die, I was all alone, and now doctors are driving all over town just to get my business?"

"Sir, this is a matter of public health. We expect—expected your cooperation."

"Let me ask you this," he said. "If society didn't care that I was going to die, why should I care if society dies?"

Pictures of Raymond in hand, the police officers stopped in the restaurant, but no one remembered seeing Raymond. Jasmine was already on her way to school.

One of the cops ordered coffee. His partner wanted a large Sprite.

"Kinda early for soda ain't it?"

"My stomach's been bothering me," his partner said. "Maybe this'll settle it."

It didn't.