Angry, loud shouting preceded the tossing of the last of many empty beer cans his father produced that fatal night. He fought with Mick’s mother, and Mick, a mere thirteen, only turned up the television; he was so accustomed to it, so immune. What Mick didn’t expect was that his father would storm out, jump on his bike and crash not a mile down the road.
Thinking of his father made Mick look down at his keys that rested on the counter. He glanced at the thick plastic cloverleaf and his thumb brushed over it. Old, faded, the color almost bleached out. His father had it for years before Mick took it.
When he closed his eyes, he heard an echo of young Sam’s voice:
“Oh, man,” Sam said with the dreamy enthusiasm of a fourteen-year-old boy. “Oh, man, Mick.”
They were so young. Mick could see Sam’s face, the backward baseball cap he wore as the two of them walked to the motorcycle parked off to the side of Mick’s trailer home, a bike that was beaten, dirty, and ugly.
“My Uncle Leo gave it to me last month,” Mick said to Sam. “Don’t work.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Sam smiled and set down the tool box. “Oh, man.”
“You keep saying that,” Mick stated.
“How come you waited so long to tell me?” Sam examined the bike. “You know I could fix it.”
“Can you?” Mick asked.
“Heck, yeah,” Sam scoffed with a snicker. “Ain’t I the best?”
“Next to your dad.”
“He taught me.” Sam crouched down before the bike. “So, you didn’t answer. How come you didn’t tell me?”
“Embarrassed.” Mick shrugged as he crouched down.
“Embarrassed?” Sam asked, shocked. “What for?”
“Look at it,” Mick pointed.
“Yeah, now. But, Mick, this is gonna be awesome when we’re done. Awesome.”
“You think?”
“I know,” Sam said with certainty. “It’ll be so cool riding it around. All the kids are gonna be so jealous. But better not let Chief Callahan catch you riding. He’ll nail your ass for riding too young.”
“We’ll ride it up here then,” Mick said.
“You gonna let me ride it?”
“Hell, yeah. You gonna fix it for me?”
“You bet.”
“Then you’ll ride.” Mick nodded with a smile. “It’ll be… cool.” He smiled again, his grin meeting Sam’s.
Mick could still see it, that smile on Sam’s young face. Then that vision faded, and the keychain came back into focus when a voice calling his name pulled him from that memory.
“Chief Owens,” the male voice spoke.
Mick turned to see who it was. “Oh, hey, Mr. McCaffrey.” Mick extended his hand.
“Patrick.” He shook Mick’s hand. “Call me Patrick.”
‘What can I do for you?” Mick asked.
“Sorry to bother you. But today is the trip to the zoo, and I have the first group scheduled to go. I didn’t get a confirmation call from Dylan about Tigger. Could you tell her to let me know if I need to pick him up today?”
Mick stammered as he answered. “Um, I don’t know if today is gonna be a good day. Then again it might be. See, Sam Hughes… the boys’ father, he had an accident last night. Was killed.”
“Oh my God,” Patrick whispered in shock. “I didn’t know.”
“You would have eventually. It’s still early.”
“That’s awful. I’m sorry. Um…” Patrick fought for the right words. “Had I known I wouldn’t have bothered you with this.”
“No, no.” Mick noticed the large brown bag placed on the counter, and he stood up. “You know, thinking about it, I’ll mention it to Dylan. It might be what Tigger needs. What time?”
“Noon.”
Mick nodded. “I’ll get back to you.”
“I appreciate it,” Patrick said. “Thanks.”
Cook pushed the bag to Mick. “How’s Dylan doing?”
“She’s doing,” Mick replied. “I expect her to be better today than tomorrow. Today’s busy. Lots to do. Funeral home, church and stuff. Boys need suits. So she won’t be able to think too much about it for that long.” Mick reached into his pocket. “How much for the food?”
Cook shook his head. “On us.”
“Thank you.” Mick lifted the bag. “I’d better head over there.” He started to leave.
Cook called out to Mick before he left, “Tell Dylan we’re thinking about her.”
Mick nodded as he walked out. He too was thinking about Dylan. Dylan and the boys, they were all he could seem to think about.
Anchorage, Alaska
Garbage day.
Bill absolutely hated it. And despite the fact that he knew, rain or shine, what day of the week it fell on, Bill always forgot.
He could have let that one lone bag of garbage go. It could sit outside in the can until the following week’s pick up, but he was neurotic about it, and he was awake. Actually, being awake wasn’t a choice for Bill. He slipped into a violent coughing spell that woke him. No position—sitting, on his side, back, stomach—nothing stopped the cough. His stomach hurt from trying to break it up. Nothing was helping, and, feeling too poorly to just lay there, Bill got out of bed.
He greased himself down with VapoRub hoping that would break through the mucus factory that was thriving in his head and chest, but it didn’t. The cough medicine didn’t relieve him either. Whatever Bill had was kicking his ass, and he couldn’t recall ever feeling so badly.
There was a certain amount of dread that went along with the thought of going outside. Thinking that he didn’t want to take his chilled body outside into the cold, Bill doubted that he had the energy to accomplish the task, but he tried.
As soon as he stepped out the back door, a wave of dizziness hit him. Attributing it to the change of temperature and his poor equilibrium, Bill trudged on. Halfway through the twenty-foot journey, like a car running out of gas, Bill lost all energy.
What had happened? He barely could move. The small yard looked like a field to him. Everything felt slanted, like a bad amusement park ride. And each step he took caused everything around him to spin more.
The closer the cans came into focus, the longer it felt it took him to arrive, but he did. Why he bothered he didn’t know. Bill knew, to hell with the garbage can, that as soon as he found something to grip onto and catch his breath, he was going to turn right back around, head into the house, and collapse.
Bill never made it.
Hands reaching for the plastic of the trash container, everything went blurry then black. His trembling hands missed right as a wave of panic swept over him, and then Bill fell face forward into the cans.
Barrow, Alaska
What hit Paul the hardest wasn’t the fact that the flu was in Barrow. He expected that, it was no surprise. What hit him hard were the numbers, numbers that would eventually be the groundwork in calculations made about the devastation of the flu. Was it perfect timing? One day earlier, one simple day earlier, and Winston would have walked out of Barrow giving them a clean slate. One day. How frightening that was to Paul. Twenty-four hours seemed so minuscule in the scope of time, but when dealing with something such as this flu, it was massive.