“Sorry, I’m so sorry. My fault.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s not your fault. Everything’s okay. Everything’s taken care of.”
Quinn reached for the water and held the straw to his father’s lips, but the older man coughed, liquid rumbling deep in his chest now.
“Think I’d like…” James paused, his jaw working as he searched for the strength to continue. “…a beer.”
Quinn couldn’t help the laugh that came out. “Okay, I’ll get you one.”
He started to rise but his father’s hand gripped his harder, pulling him down. He then let go and reached, reached up, his arm trembling as he struggled against gravity. Quinn leaned in, noticing with alarm that the muscle in James’s arm sagged like taffy inside the skin, the bones pulling taut on the opposite side. The older man’s hand found his face, the fingers dry against his cheek. They flitted there, rubbing the malformations beneath his own skin, the touch beyond gentle.
“Beautiful boy,” James whispered and lowered his arm to the bed. A small smile creased his cracked lips. Quinn swiped at his blurred vision, standing again.
“I’ll be right back, dad.”
James nodded and blinked several times at the ceiling.
Quinn hurried from the room, jogging down the stairs to the kitchen and froze in the doorway.
Mallory and Foster stood at the opposite end of the room, both wearing masks that he’d seen the groundskeeper use when painting one of the houses. Their eyes were wide above the masks and they paused when he entered the room, the heavy canvas bag between them bulging with something.
“What are you doing?” Quinn said.
Foster glanced at Mallory and then cinched the bag shut before throwing it over one shoulder. The housekeeper sidled toward the door, knocking over the pot Quinn had warmed the chicken broth in. It clanged and both Mallory and Foster jerked at the sound. He took a step closer and Foster held up a hand, his forehead pinched into horizontal lines.
“Stay back.” His voice was muffled but the words were clear enough.
“What are you doing?” Quinn repeated. There was something in Foster’s eyes, a fluttering that became decision as he blinked and turned toward the door leading to the front yard.
“I’ll be in the truck,” Foster said to Mallory.
As he left, Quinn caught sight of several water bottle caps protruding from the end of the bag that wasn’t zipped shut. Mallory reached beneath the mask and began to pull at her throat.
“You’re leaving?” Quinn asked. He took another step forward without meaning to, unable to help it. Mallory retreated.
“I’m sorry, cari?o. Graham is sick now too and-”
“But where are you going? There’s nowhere to go.”
“Foster’s cabin in Pennsylvania is on a mountain. It’s secluded and safe.”
“Nowhere is safe,” Quinn said, the anger in his voice cutting through the air. “You’re leaving us but there’s nowhere safe out there past those gates.”
“We can’t stay; the sickness is here. We have to leave before it’s too late.” Mallory said, edging backwards and now tears ran from her brown eyes onto the lip of the mask. “I’m sorry, so sorry. We left food and water. We only took what we’ll need to get there.”
“Teresa’s dead.”
She paused for an instant and then backed the rest of the way out of the house.