said Zelda. “My doctor prescribed it for a urinary tract infection, and I still have half the pills.”“Cipro?” I said, my mouth full of artichoke dip.“Honey,” said Zelda, “where have you been?”It was a cold, clear night in Austin, Texas. After the disgusting heat of summer, the cool was a balm. Zelda wore a giant sweater, knit loosely from rough, rusty-colored wool. She stood next to the barbecue, holding her hands in front of the hot coals. In the kitchen, my husband and his scientist friends concocted an elaborate marinade.“Anthrax,” whispered Zelda. She had just begun to date my husband's thesis advisor, and lent an air of glamour to departmental potlucks.“Excuse me?” I said. I took a large sip of wine, which had come from a cardboard box.“Ciprofloxacin,” clarified Zelda, hissing over the syllables. “It's the anthrax vaccine. A super-antibiotic. If we're dropped on by, like, a crop duster, Cipro is what you'll need. And,” she lowered her voice again, “there isn't enough for everyone.”Zelda wore scarves and held her wineglass with her hands wrapped around the bowl.
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