2010

March

"Pick up, damnit. Pick up." Gavin paced his bedroom, cellphone in hand, naked except his boxers and watch. It was one in the morning in Chicago, which meant it was two in Connecticut. "Hannah Lynn, pick up the damn phone..."

She answered. "What."

"Thank God." He slumped in his chair and lowered his voice. Sam was asleep in the next room. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She was drunk. Maybe high.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"Mayyybe."

"Hannah, did you hurt yourself?"

"Yes. Is that what you wanna hear?"

Definitely high. "Where are you?"

"College."

"Your dorm?"

"Mayyybe."

"Did you cut yourself?"

"Yes."

Gavin's palms were already wet and he remembered again why he would never be an ER nurse. He struggled to recall standard procedure for cutting, but his mind was blank. He knew he should call 911... but he didn't want the cops involved.

He swiveled his chair to his computer, swiped away his biology homework, minimized Hannah's email, and opened the browser. "Where did you cut yourself, Hannah? Your wrists?"

"A little."

"What do you mean 'a little?'"

"Not a lot."

"Are they bleeding?"

"A little. My legs are worse."

"Your legs?"

"My feet."

"You cut your feet?"

"Yes."

He typed "Lyme University" and searched their homepage for a contact link. "Is anybody with you?"

"No..." Her voice was drifting.

"Hannah, listen to me. I— Shit. I want you to find a towel or shirt; anything you can tie around your ankles. Can you do that?"

"I'll be okay in a minute."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm almost done."

"Almost done with what?"

"Cutting."

"Hannah, put the fucking knife down."

No response.

"Hannah Lynn?"

Gavin ended the call, scoured the website for a number for the dorms but only found contact information for the admissions office. He dialed. They were closed. Fuck. He redialed Hannah. The phone rang three times, before jumping to voice mail. He ended the call and dialed again.

"What?" Hannah said.

"Thank God. Put the knife down."

"It's down."

"You swear it's down?"

"Yeah."

"Get two shirts and tie them around your ankles."

"Kay."

He took a deep breath, wiped his palms on his boxers, and wondered again if he was doing this right.

"Gav?"

"Yeah, hon?"

Her speech was slurred beyond comprehension.

"I can't understand you, Hannah."

She shouted. "I didn't try very hard! I'll be fine."

"How bad is it bleeding?"

"Almost done."

"Did you use the shirts?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

"Hannah, listen to me. I need you to find a number for one of your friends at Lyme and call them and tell them what happened. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You can do that for me?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"If you don't, I'm gonna call 911 and they'll alert someone in Connecticut."

"I will."

"I'm going to call back in two minutes. Pick up and let me know who you talked to, okay?"

"Gav?"

"What?"

"Sorry."

"It's fine, honey. Call a friend. Right now."

"Okay."

Gavin ended the call, stood up, and continued pacing. This is what hell would be like, he thought, trapped in another world and unable to help the people you love. He waited three whole minutes, then called her back.

No answer.

He tried again.

Nothing. Maybe she was on the phone with a friend? Maybe she wasn't.

He clutched the metal cross around his neck, closed his eyes, and prayed. Then he grabbed the computer monitor off his desk and slammed it to the floor. "Fuck!"

2012

May

Two years later.

Gavin paced between the baggage claim and the woman's restroom at the O'Hare airport.

Mr. Lasker muttered, "I'll get the car," then hobbled toward the exit. Little Jonny stood by the conveyor belt, completely oblivious to Hannah's dark potential.

Gavin stepped faster, haunted by their phone conversation two years before. You're the only one who understands her, he told himself. You're the only one who can help.

The carousel beeped three times and he couldn't control himself. Without a word, he bolted to the bathroom.

White and pink tiles covered the floor and half the walls. Hannah stood at the last sink in skin-tight jeans and tank, mindlessly snapping a rubber band against her wrist and staring in the mirror.

But she was safe.

"Life will be so different," she said.

Gavin approached but didn't touch. "Living at home?"

"The cure."

"You heard the news?"

She pulled the rubber taut, then released it against her skin. "The pilot made an announcement."

"Did it make you upset?"

"No..." She snapped it again.

"Are you having bad thoughts?"

"I don't think so."

Gavin hugged her waist. "Is there anything I can do?"

She ran her hands along his arms. Her wrist was pink. "I'm sorry my Dad is here."

"Don't be."

"I didn't know he was coming."

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry about Jon... I wanted to see you both, and—"

"Hannah," he said. "Don't worry about it."

She relaxed a bit in his arms. Her fingers curled against his, slowly turning his hands into claws. She pressed his nails into the top of her criss-crossed arms, then dragged them along her skin.

2013 / Year 0

October

One year later.

The black refrigerator nearly touched the ceiling as it kept watch over the dispensary at the heart of Saint Timothy. The lack of free space meant the box had to be wedged into the back corner; a symmetrical blight among beige walls, cream shelves, and meticulous rows of pastel medicine bottles. A plexiglass window exposed the dark innards of the fancy fridge: ten shelves and precisely one thousand vials of T4-N16.1.

Gavin held his clipboard against his lab coat, peered between the shelves, saw David the security guard ambling down the isle, then glanced at the camera above the dispensary door. It had been there forever, but this was the first time he felt it watching.

He meandered to the fridge. The shelves were made of real glass, not plexiglass like the door. The vials sat side by side like uniformed troops ready for deployment.

"We only have one helicopter," David said. "I hear Cook County has six."

Gavin's attention turned from the fridge to the dull thump of the chopper outside. The sound gave the hospital a womb-like feel.

"Your lady friend counted twenty-six tents on her smoke break. It's like a Black Friday sale out there."

"My lady friend?"

"Katrina, the phlebotomist."

"How'd you—"

David stopped him with a smirk and nodded to the camera. "We've got eyes in storage closets too."

* * *

Chicago's unique East-West axis turned every street into an inescapable tunnel of wind. Tonight, the full fury of October rushed through Addison, snagging candy wrappers in tree branches and blowing plastic bags down the sidewalk like tumbleweeds.

"Saint Timothy is the perfect size," Gav said, tugging the hem of his green blazer and folding his arms around his chest. "It's just big enough to distribute The Vaccine effectively, but small enough that it's overlooked by KOC."

Chris could barely see over his box of t-shirts as he hobbled down the sidewalk. "I'm gonna make a killing tonight."

Gavin continued. "We were only approved for a single fridge when others have six or ten."

"Thirty-five shirts... six bucks of profit per sale..."

"KOC was supposed to send a specialized team of nurses and guards to every distribution center, but Saint Timothy only got a crappy how-to video."

"Wait... KOC didn't send guards?"

Gavin looked at Chris, suddenly aware that he had been speaking out loud. "We only have David."

"Interesting."

"My guess is that they moved too quickly in the States. Demand is too high and they can't keep up."

"Who has access?"

"To what?"

"The fridge."

"Anyone with a dispensary key."

"And how many vials per fridge?"

"A thousand."

"Interesting."

As Chris fell silent, Gavin's mind flipped back to Hannah. On the outside, Hannah and Jon were the perfect couple. But Gav knew better...

"Dude," Chris said. "Your brain is obnoxious."

"Huh?"

"You have that faggy look in your eye."

"I don't have a faggy look."

"Have you prepared yourself?"

"For what?"

"She's gonna be there tonight."

"I know."

"With Jon."

"Yeah, Chris. I know."

"Are you gonna whine about it for the next three days?"

Gavin slugged his friend in the shoulder. It was playful, but hard enough to make him drop his box. A tee bounced out and landed on the wet pavement.

"Asswipe!" Chris blubbered, rubbing his shoulder. "You're paying for that shirt!"

Gav smiled, stooped down, and read the slogan through a smear of mud: "Fuck The Vaccine."

"Fine," he said. "I'll take it."

* * *

Hannah's cellphone laid only two inches from Gavin's foot beneath their usual booth at Aimee's Oasis. He recognized the case, blue to match her pixie-cut hair. Nobody saw it fall and Hannah didn't seem to notice it was gone.

All of her texts and pictures... only two inches away from his foot.

A homemade banner hung above the bar entrance boldly stating, "Mortals Only!" to the patrons inside.

In less than an hour, thirty-five people were already wearing Chris's neon tees over their shirts and jackets. There were three other slogans in addition to the one on Gav's chest: "Forever Mortal," "Live Free and Die Tomorrow," and "Rage Against the Vaccine."

Gavin tried to keep his eyes on the beer in front of him, but every few seconds the desire to look up became too strong and he would steal a glance at Hannah.

Twice she caught his eye. Twice she smiled back.

Jon sat beside her. Despite the shaggy hair, Carhart jacket, and callused palms, he still looked like a kid playing dress-up in his dad's clothes. Phone in hand, he thumbed a text. Seconds later, Hannah's phone lit up at Gavin's feet.

"If KOC and the American Government aren't afraid of armed revolution, they should be." Sam swigged the last of his Blue Moon and dropped the bottle to the table. "They can't expect the middle class to sit by while the one-percent keep getting healthier. No offense, Hannah."

"You never offend me, darling." She grinned, then looked to Jon and rolled her eyes.

"Every major corporation is slipping T4 into benefit packages for their top dogs. Every day we hear another story about congressmen flying their families to Japan to get a jump on the rest of us. The president says he's going to wait until the poorest citizens can afford it... but nobody believes that garbage. He knew about The Vaccine before any of us. They keep feeding us promises about affordability, but promises don't help the people who are dying today."

Chris counted his profits for the third time. "I hope they make it free just so I don't have to hear you bitch anymore."

Sam used his forearm to twist the cap off his fourth beer. "We're already giving it to our soldiers. Not only that, but we're trying to reverse engineer the damn thing so we can speed up its regenerative capabilities. Leave it to America to prioritize super soldiers above dying citizens. And did you hear about North Korea?"

"Nobody wants to hear about North Korea, mi amor." Amelía arrived at their table with a platter of drinks. "You sound like a grumpy anciano."

"There's a lot to be grumpy about."

"Margarita on the rocks for the lady?"

Hannah accepted the drink. "Gracias, atractiva."

"A Roy Rogers for Jon."

"You're the best, Aim," he said and used his teeth to pluck the cherry from its stem.

"And for Chris I have a rum with pineapple juice and lime."

Chris scowled. "Say the name or I don't tip."

"Everyone already knows you invented the drink—"

"Say the name..."

Aimee rolled her eyes. "And for Chris, I have a Caribbean Blow Job."

His face lit up. "Thank you ma'am," he said, then handed her a twenty from his stack.

Sam pulled himself up by the strap of Aimee's apron, then pushed her lightly into his seat. "You've been working all night. Talk with your friends."

"You can handle the drinks?"

Sam picked up the tray and skipped away to the bar.

"Hey bebé." Aimee nudged Gav's shoulder and nodded across the club. "There's a pretty-little-thing eyin' you from the bar. Looks like she came alone."

Gavin peered around Aimee. He saw the girl. It was Katrina.

"Friend of yours?"

"Something like that."

Chris scoffed. "That's code for, 'I slept with her once and can't remember her name.'"

Gavin kicked him under the table. When he drew his foot back, he accidentally knocked Hannah's phone an inch closer.

"Are you gonna say hi?" Hannah asked.

It took Gavin a second to realize she was talking to him. "I barely know her. I think we had a class together last year."

Aimee laid her head on Hannah's shoulder. "I was thinkin' about you today, chica." (Gavin appreciated the change of subject and wondered if it was intentional.)

"Oh yeah?"

"I was thinkin' you should paint a bunch of pictures for the bar."

"For real?"

"The walls are bland. Let's have a show and make you famous."

Hannah whispered something into Aimee's ear and they smiled. Aimee whispered something back and they burst out laughing.

Chris rolled his eyes and turned to the men. "Seems to me like everyone's in denial about The Vaccine. The people who bitch about it are the people who can't afford it. It's like feminism. You never see a sexy girl complain about objectification."

"Nice," Aimee said.

"It's the same for you guys. Sam too. The second ya'll can afford it, you'll get it."

"I can afford it."

Everyone looked to Hannah.

"Then why the fuck aren't you in line?" Chris asked.

She shrugged. "I have my reasons."

Gavin imagined her squeezing Jon's hand beneath the table. The thought pierced his heart and gave him the motivation to go for the phone.

"It might not be for a thousand years," Hannah said, "but eventually, everything ends."

"Can't disagree with that." Aimee raised Sam's beer. "Live fast, and die at a nice young age of eighty-five!"

"You're all crazy." Chris reached across the table, took Hannah's hand, rolled a rubber-band from her wrist, wrapped it around his wad of cash, and gulped the remainder of his Caribbean Blow Job. "The second I can get my hands on a vial, I'm shootin' up and enjoyin' life."

Finally, Gavin swiped the phone. It was simple; a quick nudge with his foot, then a casual motion to "scratch his ankle." Three seconds later he was standing up and making excuses. "I've gotta pee," he said, then casually darted toward the bathroom, dipping and dodging dancers along the way.

"Hey there." A hand snagged his blazer.

In his rush to plunder Hannah's phone, he forgot about the girl watching from the bar.

"You're making that scrunchy face again," Katrina said. "What are you thinkin' about?"

"Don't you work?"

"I got off at nine. Thought I'd stop by and see you."

"Kat..."

"You don't want me here..."

"I do..."

She looked down. "You don't want your friends to meet me."

He winced. "I'm sorry baby."

"Don't be. I get it."

Katrina Banks was a year older than Gav and a solid 9.5 in her olive miniskirt and matching heels. She was obsessed with cats, tanning beds, and primetime cop shows... but at least she was real.

"Is that Hannah?" she asked.

Gavin looked over his shoulder and saw Hannah rifling through her purse. "Yeah..."

"She's pretty."

"Don't do this now..."

"The blue hair is a little obvious. But she's cute. Really."

"Kat..."

She looked into his eyes. "Promise there's nothing there?"

"I told you, hon, she's an old friend."

"Right..."

"Really."

"That's your brother?"

"Yeah."

"Same jaw line."

"Go back to the apartment, honey."

"Honey honey honey..." She sighed. "Come with me? You hate this T4 talk."

"I'll leave soon."

"Back before I sleep?"

"Always."

Katrina slid off the barstool and revealed enough thigh to turn Gavin on. "Gav?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't have anything to worry about... right?"

"Go home, hon. I promise, you have nothing to worry about."

* * *

The cracks in the orange paint looked so much like a web that someone had graffitied a spider above the toilet. It's big cartoony eyes watched Gavin as he dropped the seat and turned on Hannah's cell.

She had two missed texts. The first was from "Daddy" and read, "keep your mind on your friends, princess. i'll be fine. xo"

The other was from "The Best Boyfriend In The World" and simply read, "You okay?"

Gavin's fingers trembled as he opened the email app.

Junk mail.

Junk mail.

Junk mail.

Subject: "I'm sorry. Come home?" The message was from Jon. It was dated last night at 10:07 PM.

I shouldn't have gotten frustrated. I shouldn't have pressed you on such a big decision. There are things I couldn't articulate in the heat of the moment, but maybe I can do it better in writing.

1. I'm not afraid of growing old or dying. However.....

2. I'm not afraid of The Vaccine either. If T4 means I can spend an eternity with you, I want it.

3. I won't give you an ultimatum. This isn't a decision between our relationship and life extension. If you go to Cook County with your dad, I'll still put everything I have into loving you. I'll fight through whatever problems arise with our differences. And someday—when the world changes and I can afford it—I'll join you.

Come home?

Hannah's reply was dated five hours later at 3:13 AM. Gavin scrolled down and read the message.

Hey baby...

I'm sorry I left. I was acting like a child and you deserve better.

I'm not afraid of growing old. I don't even think I'm afraid of death... but I have other things to consider.

You keep saying this isn't an ultimatum between our relationship and immortality... but that's exactly what it is. If one of us gets The Vaccine and the other doesn't, the rift will be unbearable.

I don't want that, Jon. I want to be as close to you as possible for as long as possible.

I love your ambition for life. I love that you work your ass off at a construction job you hate, then come home and pursue your dreams as an architect even when you're bogged down in all those codes.

I want to create art that makes you proud. I want to see the look on your face when they build a skyscraper that you designed. I want to make love to you on the day we're engaged. And when I'm sad, I want to bury myself in your chest and know that I have nothing to worry about.

I love you. And I won't get T4 without you.

* * *

Back at the corner booth, Hannah, Jon, Chris, and Sam scoured the floor for the missing phone. In one sly motion, Gavin pulled the cell from his pocket, stooped beside the adjacent booth, and pretended to find it on the ground. "Hey," he said to his friends. "Looking for this?"