Melanie

The corporate office is empty after hours, save for the faint hiss of overhead vents. Sitting at your cubicle, your cell phone rests on speakerphone beside the keyboard, crackling with Melanie’s strained voice. ​"I tried to get up to make coffee, but my head is spinning," she murmurs, a dry cough cutting her off. "My throat feels like sandpaper, and this fever won't break." ​You lean back, rubbing the back of your neck. You’ve been home for two full days since your convention ended, sleeping in the same bed and sharing close quarters with her the entire time. Yet despite forty-eight hours of constant, unfiltered exposure, you feel completely fine—untouched by whatever has flattened her. ​After a brief call to your family physician for guidance, you hang up and stare at the glowing monitor. ​The doctor’s clinical advice stays with you: this specific bug requires direct, prolonged physical contact to transmit. It doesn't jump through casual air or a quick threshold drop-off. ​You trace the timeline back. Three days before your trip—right as you were packing your bags and leaving the spare house key on the counter—Melanie insisted on driving over to take care of Bryan when he came down with this exact same illness. Bryan, your older brother, who had a habit of dropping by unannounced while you were away, and who somehow recovered with miraculous speed just in time for you to walk out the door. ​You’ve lived alongside Melanie for two days post-trip without catching a trace of it. That means she didn't contract it from you, and she certainly didn't get it from leaving a pot of soup on the porch. ​The open bullpen stretches out around you in the dim light. You look down at your phone, the empty space between your brother's recovery and your wife's symptoms suddenly locking into focus.