You know what else is primal, she thinks. Eating flesh. A spasm quickens down her spine, electrifying her nerves, and her eyes begin watering again. She dabs them with the restaurant napkin. This urge to kiss him is primal, but she’s seen the nasty news footage. The humane love a person feels goes away once the virus plummets the person’s body into ruin.

And after?

That primal urge becomes survival. The parasite begins to crave living cells, and the only cells that satisfy are cells with human DNA . There’s a reason those who walk the streets with rolled back eyes, cumbersome movements and hung-open, dry mouths are called Scroungers.

“I wish I could kiss you,” she says.

“God, I wish I could kiss you, too.”

He continues to walk backwards, his brown wing tips carefully placed one behind the other.

“Please, just…stand there, a moment longer,” she says. “Let me just watch you. It’s all that I have left.”

“You know they’re working on treatments, don’t you?” he says.