some know better, some know worse
Alan eases into a plastic chair not quite dry from disinfectant. Ready in 15 or the next pizza’s free—we’ll see—and checks the time on the screen tuned to local news. The sound is mute, but the protestors look loud. Anti-vaxers at the hospital. Police, according to the caption crawler, are standing by.
Wait, I recognize her, the lady with the balloons. She’s double vaxed. We chatted in queue. A hair dresser, maybe a barber; something like that. Kinda hypocritical to be protesting.
Writing. She is writing on her balloons with a Sharpie. Voice and Choice. The twins of freedom dangle; don’t float. More signs raised. More mouthing of shouting. Then she stabs the balloons with her Sharpie. No more Voice. No Choice. She blows a kiss like a child might cast dandelion seeds.
Ready before 15; no freebie. Alan slides the pizza in the back seat and snaps off his mask, his barrier against the bug. Next the latex gloves. Take no chances.
By morning the news is all about a new strain. More deadly. More contagious. More like the virus of a century ago. By the end of the week, it is the Dawn-to-Dusk virus. Catch it at dawn, bite the dust by dusk.
At the epicentre is the hospital. D-to-D ripped through the hospital. Alan, who wears a mask in his living room, recalls balloons that don’t float, filled by lungs. Filled by someone who knew better, for worse.
