The weight of what happened at Liza’s house presses down on my shoulders. They’re dead. All of them. But what about me? Am I infected? I have no idea what tests my father had been taking or giving me, but I’m not dumb. Obviously. It’s related to ETR virus. If I’d been exposed he would have said something that last day. I would be sick now, like the others. I push the idea of out my head and follow the path next to the playground, toward the back of the church. The moon lights up the sky enough that we move easily without flashlights. The storage shed is visible next to the big, plastic slide. It’s small, but it should work for the night. “There’s a lock on the door,” Mom whispers, pointing to the padlock and chain. On my tiptoes, I reach my hand under the eave and feel around for the spare key I knew they kept up there a couple of years ago. My arm strains and a brief panic flares in my chest.
