“Mr. . . . Sweeney?” I gasped. Carol nodded, mistaking my shock for sorrow. “Yes. Tragic, isn’t it? Such a lovely man. His wife is sick now, too. She was traveling. Came back at the worst possible time. Must have caught it from him.” “Excuse me,” I said, and bolted for the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and leaned against the door. Oh my God oh my God oh my God. Mr. Sweeney has Gaspereau. I remembered his strange behavior at the airport, how he’d coughed into that beige handkerchief, specks of spittle flying everywhere . . . including on my face. I’d thought nothing of it at the time. When was that? The man on TV had said that the incubation period was twenty-four to seventy-two hours. I pressed my head between my hands and forced myself to calm down enough to think. I’d arrived on Sunday night, and it was now Wednesday afternoon . . . almost seventy-two hours later. I didn’t think I had any symptoms—but if I did, would I know?
