Page 1 of The Strawberry Field
Prologue
March 14, 2020
Sawyer
The early evening traffic is locked in a stranglehold, cars honking their horns in a steady cacophony of outrage that won’t change how fast we get there. An early March snow had made the streets slushy and slow-moving. I should have left the hospital earlier. But one more patient turned into five, and then there was the woman with the persistent cough, an escalating fever, and a look of panic in her eyes I couldn’t ignore.
Lately, there have been more patients like her. Odd respiratory distress symptoms that hit suddenly and aren’t testing positive for flu. An intensity to them that is alarming. An unusual number of pneumonia cases. As a doctor, I’ve never been afraid of catching illnesses from my patients. It’s just not something you let yourself think about once you’re committed to the field of medicine. I can’t say that any longer. I’m worried. Everyone’s worried.
But Michael won’t be surprised I’m late. He’s used to me staying too long, doing too much, never knowing when to walk away. He calls it my gift and his curse.
I check my reflection in the compact mirror. My mascara is long gone. My eyes are hollow. The freckles across my cheeks, once something I tried to cover up because they made me insecure, don’t bother me tonight. It seems silly that something so inconsequential once bothered me.
That was the world I lived in a few short weeks ago. One where there wasn’t something potentially terrifying looming over all of humanity, and we had time to worry about silly things like freckles. I wipe my face clean and reapply enough makeup to look as if I tried.
The black Suburban eases into a line of cars, inciting another immediate string of irritated honking.
“Sorry about the delay, ma’am,” the driver says. “And the horns. New York City.”
He’s young. Southern drawl. Friendly, like someone raised with Sunday manners. “It wouldn’t be the Big Apple without that,” I say, meeting his gaze in the mirror.
“You’re not from here?” he asks.
“Virginia,” I tell him.
He nods.“Thought I recognized that accent. North Carolina, myself.”
“What brings you north?”
“Film school. NYU. And yourself?”
“ER doc.”
His brows rise.“Bet you’ve seen some stuff lately,” he says, his voice suddenly more serious. “Any truth to what’s coming out in the news?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, hedging.
“Pretty scary to have people arriving in the country so sick. You think some kind of bad virus might be the real deal?”
“I think we don’t know nearly enough to not take it seriously.”
He nods, his forehead furrowed.“City feels different lately. Like something’s coming.”
I glance out the window. The sidewalks aren’t as crowded as normal. Couples walk side by side, but they aren’t holding hands.
It’s only later I’ll realize we were standing on the edge of something irreversible. A storm was coming, not sudden and dramatic, but slow, steady, and devastating, its front still hidden beyond the skyline. But the first winds were already in the air.
My phone buzzes again. Michael this time.
Got our table. Place is packed. I’ll be the guy sipping a Bellini and missing you.
A stab of guilt. I reply quickly: Almost there. I’m sorry.
He always waits for me. Even when I’m hours late. Even when I don’t deserve it.
We pull up to Harry Cipriani. I thank the driver and step out into the night, bracing myself against the cold air.
I walk through the narrow revolving door, a quick whirl from the angry traffic along Fifth Avenue into the luxurious interior of this exclusive Italian restaurant. It is exactly as I remembered, elegant, hushed, full of people who still look as if life isn’t tilting on its axis.
