At the hospital, Zehra rested. On the outside, she was okay. A few bruises and scrapes. Inside was a different problem. Warm blankets were piled around her body up to her chin. She was in quarantine.
Mentally, she was a wreck. Although Zehra didn’t know the full story about Michael—Mustafa—and his plot yet, she still felt guilty. In her mind, she replayed the details of the shooting. Would he have shot again and killed her? Was he turning away? Did she have to kill him? It became too much, and her brain stopped.
When she opened her eyes, her mother and father smiled through the large glass window on her room. “What have you heard on the news?” she asked them.
“It’s not good,” Donald said. “The best place for you is right here.”
Zehra worried the vaccine she’d received might not work. “How’s Paul?”
“He’s right next to you,” Prisha said and pointed at the curtain beside Zehra.
She tugged it back and saw Paul propped up in his bed, talking on his phone. She asked him, “How can you keep going after all you’ve been through?”
Lowering the phone, he said, “This is why I became an FBI agent. We’re fighting for the state now. If we lose, it’s the entire country.” He resumed talking.
Zehra took a deep breath. No one spoke. Her parents found chairs and sat beside the window.
Suddenly, Paul whooped. He laughed and cheered. “Dr. Sarnahan, are you certain?” he said into the phone. “I can’t believe it. There’s really one honest person left in the world?” He clicked off and looked to Zehra. A smile played across his mouth until it split open across his face.
“What’s so funny?”
“The CDC flew the sample of the virus found in the school to Atlanta to be tested. The tests were run three times. The results show the virus was already dead. Ammar and his terrorists bought worthless stuff. The Russian who sold it cheated them.”
“What does that mean?” Zehra got out of bed and still felt dizzy.
“It means we’re all okay. There’s no epidemic. False alarm!”