Too tired to look up, I gaze at the pavement as I ride. Cracks and potholes are my main concern anyway. It’s a divided highway, and I can hear any vehicles behind me. So I notice the hastily stenciled red arrows on the street right away. They point the way to an emergency clinic.

Do I still carry the ilagula virus, even tho I’ve recovered? A modern Typhoid Mary spreading death with every step? I don’t think so; if I still had it, it would still be killing me—have killed me. I turn into the clinic and park my bike. Information is light.

I give a fake name, because an Andrew Pace poster is taped to the front door. The lab tech washes the inside of my elbow with alcohol, while I visualize a field of daisies swaying in a gentle breeze and go limp for her. I feel and ignore the prick.

“Who do you have there?” booms a male voice. “Have you checked his ID?”

A deputy steps up in front of me. “Sometimes an ilagula victim doesn’t die quite right, and we have to rekill him.”

The daisies are gone.