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recently with people who’d been infected—well, technically, people in whom the Kellis-Amberlee virus was amplifying, which just so happened to make them technically dead in the eyes of the law—maxing out their cash withdrawals at as many ATMs as they could before they fully turned. That way they could pay someone to put them down rather than calling in a police executioner or notifying the CDC. It was an understandable decision. I thought it might be quite nice to be shot by someone who would tell me they were sorry before they pulled the trigger. But once someone’s dead, they’re not supposed to be making withdrawals, and the banks were starting to get pissy about it. Hence the additional blood tests now impacting the middle class. If you were poor, they figured you didn’t have enough for them to give a damn about, and if you were rich, you could buy a few less needle pricks in your lifetime. Only a few. We wouldn’t want to start seeming
humane
, now, would we?
    I was waiting at the gate when Ben came over to join me. “All sorted?” he asked.
    â€œAll sorted,” I replied, holding our parking ticket up for him to see. I liked that it was still paper, a prehistoric artifact in a world of apps and plastic and everything digital. I had a collection of folded paper animals made from parking tickets gathered in garages from Galway to San Francisco. It was like a souvenir that didn’t cost me anything—well, didn’t cost me anything
more
, anyway—and that was a miracle all on its own. “What took you so long?”
    â€œThe driver knew we’d been there during the outbreak, wanted to know if we had any thoughts on how it might have started.” The parking garage proper had two doors, one for the driver, one for the passengers. Ben took up his position on the driver’s side. As a passenger, my test results would clear me—or not—a few seconds behind him. That way, if I was infected and he wasn’t, he’d be able to get to the car. Forget “women and children first”: Like most security systems, the garage just wanted to know that we were going to get our car out of their precious parking space before we were eaten.
    â€œAnd what did you say?”
    â€œI gave him my URL, told him to swing by later tonight for more details.” Ben turned his head just enough for me to see the bright slash of his smile as he brought his thumb down on the testing pad. “Nothing like driving those ratings a little bit higher when you have the chance, huh?”
    â€œYou’re the one who understands the bloody system,” I said. “I just point and click and go where I’m told.”
    â€œThe day you go where you’re told is the day I join the priesthood, because clearly there has been a divine intervention.” The door clicked as Ben’s blood test came through clean. “See you on the other side, trashmouth.”
    â€œNot if I see you first,” I said. He stepped through, and he was gone.
    The testing panel hummed softly as it cycled, presenting me with a clean surface to press my thumb against. There’d been some sort of problem with the systems that did the cleaning about oh, five or six years ago, which had resulted in a whole bunch of people being infected. The company that made the cleaning systems went out of business, the families of the dead sued the government for a truly staggering amount of money, and all parties involved hushed it up as much as they possibly could. Even the braver reporters I knew had stayed away from
that
story. It was a one-time manufacturing glitch; it happened because sometimes bad things happen in the world; destroying people’s ability to trust the protocols that kept them safe was only going to lead to worse down the road. The party line was good because it was true, and all the Newsies had stayed quiet, and all the Irwins had followed their lead.
    Sometimes I