“That’s bull,” Kaye said.

The man stopped, faintly exasperated, then resumed. “A second-stage SHEVA fetus. Do you know what this means, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Kaye said, “but it’s all wrong.”

“I’m here to inform you that in the judgment of the federal Emergency Action Taskforce Office and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—”

“I used to work for them,” Kaye said.

“I know that,” Jurgenson said. Clark smiled and nodded, as if pleased to meet her. The deputies stood back beyond the porch, arms folded. “Miz Lang, it’s been determined that you may present a public health threat. You and other women in this area are being contacted and informed of their choices.”

“I choose to stay where I am,” Kaye said, her voice shaky. She stared from face to face. Pleasant-looking men, clean shaven, earnest, almost as nervous as she was, and not happy.

“We have orders to take you and your husband to a county Emergency Action shelter in Lynnwood, where you will be sequestered and provided medical care until it can be determined whether or not you present a public health risk—”

“No,” Kaye said, feeling her face heat up. “This is absolute bullshit. My husband is ill. He can’t travel.”

Jurgenson’s face was stern. He was preparing to do something he did not like. He glanced at Clark. The deputies stepped forward, and one nearly stumbled on a rock. After swallowing, Jurgenson continued. “Dr. Clark can give your husband a brief examination before we move you.” His breath showed on the night air.

“He has a headache? Kaye said. “A migraine. He gets them sometimes.” On the gravel drive waited a sheriff’s department car and a small ambulance. Beyond the vehicles, the scrubby wide lawn of the house stretched to a fence. She could smell the damp green and the country soil on the cold night air.

“We have no choice, Miz Lang.”

There was not much she could do. If Kaye resisted, they would simply come back with more men.

“I’ll come. My husband shouldn’t be moved.”

“You may both be carriers, ma’am. We need to take both of you.”

“I can examine your husband and see whether his condition might respond to medical treatment,” Clark said.

Kaye hated the first sensation of tears coming. Frustration, helplessness, aloneness. She saw Clark and Jurgenson look over her shoulder, heard someone moving, whirled as if she might be taken by ambush.

It was Mitch. He walked with a distinct jerk, eyes half-closed, hands extended, like Frankenstein’s monster. “Kaye, what is it?” he asked, his voice thick. Simply talking made his face wrinkle with pain.

Clark and Jurgenson moved back now, and the nearest deputy unlatched his holster. Kaye turned and glared at them. “It’s a migraine! He has a migraine]”

“Who are they?” Mitch asked. He nearly fell over. Kaye went to him, helped him remain standing. “I can’t see very well,” he murmured.

Clark and Jurgenson conferred in whispers. “Please bring him out on the porch, Miz Lang,” Jurgenson said, his voice strained. Kaye saw a gun in the deputy’s hand.

“What is this?”

“They’re from the Taskforce,” Kaye said. “They want us to come with them.”

“Why?”

“Something about being infectious.”

“No,” Mitch said, struggling in her grasp.

“That’s what I told them. But Mitch, there isn’t anything we can do.”

“No!” Mitch shouted, waving one arm. “Come back when I can see you, when I can talk! Leave my wife alone, for God’s sake.”

“Please come out on the porch, ma’am,” the deputy said. Kaye knew the situation was getting dangerous. Mitch was in no condition to be rational. She did not know what he might do to protect her. The men outside were afraid. These were awful times and awful things could happen and nobody would be punished; they might be shot and the house burned to the ground, as if they had plague.

“My wife is pregnant,” Mitch said. “Please leave her alone.” He tried to move toward the front door. Kaye stood beside him, guiding him.

The deputy kept his gun pointed toward the porch, but held it with both hands, arms straight. Jurgenson told him to put the gun away. He shook his head. “I don’t want them doing something stupid,” he said in a low voice.

“We’re coming out,” Kaye said. “Don’t be idiots. We’re not sick and we’re not infectious.”

Jurgenson told them to walk through the door and step down off the porch. “We have an ambulance. We’ll take you both to where they can look after your husband.”

Kaye helped Mitch outside and down the porch steps. He was sweating profusely and his hands were damp and cold. “I still can’t see very well,” he said into Kaye’s ear. “Tell me what they’re doing.”

“They want to take us away.” They stood in the yard now. Jurgenson motioned to Clark and he opened the back of the ambulance. Kaye saw there was a young woman behind the wheel of the ambulance. The driver stared owlishly through the rolled-up window. “Don’t do anything silly,” Kaye said to Mitch. “Just walk steadily. Did the pills help?”

Mitch shook his head. “It’s bad. I feel so stupid…leaving you alone. Vulnerable.” His words were thick and his eyes almost closed. He could not stand the glare of the headlights. The deputies turned on their flashlights and aimed them at Kaye and Mitch. Mitch hid his eyes with one hand and tried to turn away.

“Do not move!” the deputy with the gun ordered. “Keep your hands in the open!”

Kaye heard more engines. The second deputy turned. “Cars coming,” he said. “Trucks. Lots of them.”

She counted four pairs of headlights moving down the road to the house. Three pickup trucks and a car pulled into the yard, kicking up gravel, brakes squealing. The trucks carried men in the back — men with black hair and checkered shirts, leather jackets, windbreakers, men with ponytails, and then she saw Jack, Sue’s husband.

Jack opened the driver’s-side door of his truck and stepped down, frowning. He held up his hand and the men stayed in the backs of the pickups.

“Good evening,” Jack said, his frown vanishing, his face suddenly neutral. “Hello, Kaye, Mitch. Your phones aren’t working.”

The deputies stared at Jurgenson and Clark for guidance. The gun remained pointed down at the gravel drive. Wendell Packer and Maria Konig got out of the car and approached Mitch and Kaye. “It’s all right,” Packer told the four men, now forming an open square, defensive. He held up his hands, showing they were empty. “We brought some friends to help them move. Okay?”

“Mitch has a migraine,” Kaye called. Mitch tried to shrug her off, stand on his own, but his legs were too wobbly.

“Poor baby,” Maria said, walking in a half circle around the deputies. “It’s all right,” she told them. “We’re from the University of Washington.”

“We’re from the Five Tribes,” Jack said. “These are our friends. We’re helping them move.” The men in the pickups kept their hands in the open but smiled like wolves, like bandits.

Clark tapped Jurgenson on the shoulder. “Let’s not make any headlines,” he said. Jurgenson agreed with a nod. Clark got into the ambulance and Jurgenson joined the deputies in the Caprice. Without another word, the two vehicles backed up, turned, and grumbled down the long gravel drive into the twilight.

Jack stepped forward with his hands in his jeans pockets and a big, energized smile. “That was fun,” he said.

Wendell and Kaye helped Mitch squat on the ground. “I’ll be fine,” Mitch said, head in hands. “I couldn’t do anything. Jesus, I couldn’t do anything.”

“It’s all right,” Maria said.

Kaye knelt beside him, touching her cheek to his forehead. “Let’s get you inside.” She and Maria helped him to his feet and half carried him toward the house.

“We heard from Oliver in New York,” Wendell said. “Christopher Dicken called him and said something ugly was coming down fast. He said you weren’t answering your phones.”