Infection: It's Not What You Know...

Moviitch spilled his entire mug of coffee when Tison burst into his office. The older doctor was ready to spew a stream of curses at his colleague, but as soon as he actually looked at Tison, he forgot all about the burning liquid on his lap and hands. “What’s happened?” was the immediate query.
Tison clearly had not slept in days. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, hair tousled, clothes wrinkled and odorous. The force of his entry had caused a shower of paperwork to cascade across the floor. He was gasping, as though from running.
“I’ve been studying the infection, trying to discern its seemingly arbitrary spread. I finally found a link, but you aren’t going to believe it.” Tison leaned onto the opposing chair, staring, trembling hands clamped on the back cushion.
“You’ve ruled out contact transmission?”
“Technically? No, but it would take too long to qualify why. I just- I almost can’t believe this.”
“Spit it out!”
Tison stopped shaking. “It spreads retroactively through friendships.”
Then he collapsed.

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