by Carl Frederick

* * * *

There�s a fine line between disrupting an ecosystem and creating a new one....

Grass tastes good. Rats taste better, but I need to cough fur. Birds are good too. But they are hard to catch and most are too big. The rats are in front of us. There�s nowhere else they can be�except behind us. When we are hungry again, we will run and catch them and play with them and eat them.

On one side there is a big, wide trail with lots and lots of things that smell bad. The things are big and they move so fast that we can�t cross the trail. On the other side, there is another big trail with things going the other way.

A big, big bright thing with a lot of holes in its side is stopping at the edge of the trail. Big animals are getting out. They walk on their back paws and they smell male. Their fur is bright and shiny. They have big front paws with long toes and they carry bags. We hide in the tall grass.

* * * *

When the bus had pulled out of the hydrogen refueling station fifteen minutes earlier and continued leisurely north on Route 81X, Adrian fantasized that it would keep going, picking up speed on that arrow-straight superhighway, to deliver him to Canada, to home�freedom. Looking out the window, he saw the reflection of his neon orange jumpsuit, as well as the orange images of the other passengers. He pressed his nose against the window, concentrating instead on the dark, threatening sky and the green of the highway median strip�and the roadside litter, his calling of the moment.

Just weeks ago, he�d come as a freshman to Cornell University to study forest ecology. Now, he was an inmate at the Elmira Correctional Facility. He stared out the window. Studying highway-median ecology. He tried to smile at the thought, but couldn�t. He leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes tight.

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! As the bus slowed and drove onto the edge of the median, the Voice-Vibe rumble strip sent the alert through the vehicle. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

�Alright, guys,� the correction officer called out. �As you go out, pick up a bag and a box lunch. You have fifteen minutes to eat it.�

With practiced routine, the convicts streamed from the bus in the order of their seating. Adrian�s seatmate, Jake, slid to the aisle and Adrian followed. Jake seemed to be in his mid fifties, but he moved like he was in his eighties. They took their lunches and trash bags, and stepped into the fresh air. Under Adrian�s urging, they sprawled down as far from the bus as was possible without drawing a rebuke from the corrections officer.

Adrian tore into his box lunch, but Jake just stared at his.

�Are you okay?� asked Adrian.

�Yeah, I guess.� Jake pushed away the box. �It�s just that I�ve been feeling tired lately. Not really able to become interested in doing anything�not even eating.� He looked skyward. �Probably the weather.�

Adrian glanced upward. Thunderheads and distant lightning, but it was dry and felt as if it would stay that way. And if it didn�t, he had an empty litter collection bag he could slip over his head to keep off the rain.

Jake, seemingly reading his thoughts, said, �Heat lightning, probably. And damn! It is hot.� He fingered his litter bag. �But it�s nice we can get out into the countryside. Six months ago, our job was done by litterbots.�

�I read about those,� said Adrian vacantly, not really interested in the conversation. �But they didn�t work as well in the rain as they were supposed to.�

Jake scowled at the sky. �And with this freaky weather lately, rain seems to come whenever it wants.�

�Global warming.�

�Who knows? Anyway, we might be the first people to have set foot on this median strip in years.�

Adrian collected the refuse from his lunch. Jake held open his litter bag, and Adrian tossed the garbage in.

�We�re cheaper than litterbots,� said Jake. �Maybe even smarter.�

Adrian chuckled. The fresh air and Jake�s gentle companionship had lightened his mood.

�I must say,� said Jake, �that you don�t seem the type to be a convicted felon.�

Adrian stiffened.

�No offense.� Jake made calming motions with a hand. �I imagine you�re innocent.� He looked toward the white bus with the letters NYDOC stenciled on its side. Around it sat other orange-clad inmates eating their lunches. �New York Department of Correction.� He chuckled. �Everyone here is innocent.�

Adrian hung his head. �I guess I�m not actually innocent.�

�Oh?�

�I�d been invited to a dorm party,� said Adrian, still gazing down at the grass. �I�d never been away from home before, and there I was�in college. Someone offered me a ... a joint. And I felt I�d be laughed at if I didn�t try it.�

�And you were busted.�

�Yeah.� A succession of painful thoughts flooded Adrian�s mind. �Three months. I�ll miss my entire first semester. Busted for drugs.� He shook his head slowly. �I don�t know how I�ll ever be able to face my mother. I can�t stand this.�

�You are innocent,� said Jake in a soft voice.

A sudden bright flash bleached the sky, followed by a great rumbling crash. Adrian jerked his head around. So did Jake, but with less energy. Across the highway, a tree smoldered, and as they watched, a limb cracked and plunged to the ground.

�Jeez!� cried Adrian, rolling to his feet. �Closest lightning strike I�ve ever seen.�

With almost audible creaks and groans, Jake stood as well. �We�d better get back to the bus.�

�I don�t want to,� said Adrian, all at once, resolute.

Jake looked back and just then came a second blinding flash, a deafening peal of thunder�and then an explosion.

�Oh, my god!� shouted Jake. He stood rock-still, staring at the bus that was engulfed in pale-blue flame. Other inmates, arrayed around the bus also stared at the sudden conflagration.

�Blue flame,� said Adrian, almost at a whisper. �The hydrogen tank must have ruptured.�

�Yeah.� Jake started toward the bus. �Come on.�

�No!�

Jake turned to stare. �There are lot worse places to be than in a minimum security prison.�

�I�m not going back,� said Adrian, crumpling the litter bag he held. �I ... I can�t take it.�

Jake nodded.

�Please don�t tell,� Adrian pleaded.

Jake paused for a moment. �I�ve never even seen you.� He stooped and, with more alacrity than Adrian had ever seen in the man, picked up his lunch box. He tossed it to Adrian. �Take it!�

�Jake. Thank you.� Adrian turned and, still carrying his litter bag, ran north on the median, making for a diminutive copse of trees.

From the concealment of the pin oaks, still in full leaf in late September, Adrian peeked out, taking in the scene of the distant bus. Everyone faced the bus and no one seemed to take note of anything else. Two men that he could see were down, neither of whom were dressed in orange.

Adrian let out a breath he�d not known he was holding. Clearly, he�d not been missed�not yet, at any rate. But he dared not move on. In his orange jumpsuit he�d stand out like Canada Day fireworks.

In an act of impulse, Adrian yanked down the zipper of the hated jumpsuit, the mark of his captivity. He wriggled out of the garment and stood clad only in underpants, socks, and sneakers. Absently, he contorted the suit, folding legs and arms inward, forcing the jumpsuit into a bright orange, soccer ball sized sphere.

He slipped the balled suit into the litter bag and then ran�first at a crouch, then erect and at full speed. If anyone noticed him from the road he�d look like a nutcase, but not an escaped prisoner.

He ran until winded and then jogged to the next copse of trees for cover. There�s no way I�ll get from here to Canada in nothing but my underwear. �Wait a minute!� He grabbed the litter bag by its bottom, letting the orange ball fall to the grass. Taking the black plastic in his teeth, he chewed holes for head and arms.

He wriggled into his makeshift clothing and looked himself over. Not bad! Could use a belt, though.

In better spirits than he had been recently, he took an impulsive running kick at the orange ball, sending it into a high arc. It landed in the grass, then rolled gently into a northbound lane. With mixed emotions, Adrian watched as cars, like soccer players, worked the ball forward. Yes, he hated those prison clothes, but now all he had was underwear and a litter bag tunic.

When the last trace of the orange sphere had vanished from sight, Adrian picked up Jake�s lunch and ran again. He felt free�underdressed but free. He smiled with a thought. He could always say he was the victim of a fraternity prank�stripped and abandoned on a median. As he ran, he experienced the runner�s high, a feeling of unreasoned exhilaration. He had visions of hitchhiking north to the border. And there, he�d sneak across. It wouldn�t be hard. The Canadian border was still relatively unpatrolled. And Canada wouldn�t send him back. There was only one negative: he�d not be able to go back to Cornell. �But who cares?� he gasped aloud. Anyway, the U of Toronto was his second choice. He was sure they�d take him.

Gradually, his run slowed to a jog and then to a walk. As he proceeded north on the ribbon of green bounded by the two torrential bands of traffic, he scowled at the profusion of Styrofoam cups and fast-food wrappers�the litter his crew had been tasked to collect. It was disgusting�the idea of people throwing stuff from their cars. He gave a tight-lipped smile. Those very people had made possible his escape.

As the sun lowered to its setting, Adrian all at once felt tired�exhausted. At a small stand of trees, an oasis of dwarf sugar maples, he stopped to take stock of his situation, to observe, to plan, to rest, and to eat Jake�s lunch.

Sitting under a tree munching a sandwich, Adrian gazed vacantly at the hurtling traffic. The legal limit, according to a sign, was seventy-five miles per hour. Adrian mentally converted it to a more familiar measure. One hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. Fast! And most of the cars were speeding: one hundred thirty, one hundred forty kilometers per hour, probably. Adrian shook his head. At that speed, the drivers would scarcely have time to contemplate the scenery. No one would take notice of him. Strangely, the thought made him lonely. He was, for all practical purposes, alone. He might as well be on another planet. He�d have thought the road noise would provide some comfort�the sound of people going places. But the traffic was so heavy and regular, the noise sounded as a constant hum; he had to concentrate to even notice it anymore.

A motion in the grass some six or seven meters away drew his attention. A kitten! Then, he saw a second and a third moving slowly toward him.How the heck did kittens get onto this median? He felt a surge of anger at the thought that they�d simply been abandoned. His eyes then widened in astonishment. The animals were certainly kitten-sized, but their proportions were those of adult cats. And they moved with the grace and poise of adults. They moved close to the ground, stalking. Puzzled as he was over the size of the creatures, Adrian was even more puzzled and intrigued by their behavior; they seemed to be working as a group; he�d not known cats to hunt cooperatively.

Then, he saw what they hunted. Mice�five or six fuzzy gray patches on the grass. He watched as one of the cats pounced. Then, as the cat played with his catch, Adrian observed the tiny gray creature�s head. It was blunt and chunky; the head not of a mouse but a rat�a baby rat. Adrian narrowed his eyes with the realization that, as were the cats, the rats were most probably adults. Two cases of dwarfism. Because of limited prey for the cats and scant food for the rats, I guess small is better�and their populations are probably very low. He�d read about islands where the fauna were much smaller than their mainland cousins. And this median strip is for all practical purposes, an island�a long, thin island.

Adrian thrilled to the notion of median strips having their own unique ecological systems. He felt giddy with an idea. He�d study it somehow at college. He smiled, visualizing himself as a highway median ecologist�the first and only.

Maybe, thought Adrian, his incarceration had been a blessing�fate showing him the way to his future. He opened Jake�s box lunch and tore off the corner of a sandwich containing some unidentifiable, institutional sliced meat. He crouched and held the food toward one of the cats, who�d not caught a rat.

�Here, cat! Puss, puss, puss.�

The cat crept forward warily, showing caution rather than fear.

�There�s a good cat.�

The cat took the meat, and Adrian moved to stroke its fur with his free hand. Suddenly, the cat twisted around, hissed, and bit him at the fleshy point between the thumb and forefinger, drawing blood.

�Damn!�

The feral cat ran to join the others.

Adrian worried about disease. If the median strip could have its own varieties of fauna, it could well have its own set of bacteria and viruses�strains for which humans had never developed antibodies. Adrian shook his head and resolved not to think about it. It was just another occupational hazard of being a highway-median ecologist. And it was a much smaller hazard now than in the days before the universal rabies, tetanus, West Nile vaccine that all kids got�all Canadian kids, at any rate.

Remembering his sandwich, he polished it off and then scarfed down the cookie and emptied the juice box. By reflex, he looked for a trashcan. But, of course, there weren�t any. Feeling chagrined, he set the box down at the edge of the road. He himself had become a hated litterer. Not a great way to start my life as a median ecologist.

In good spirits after eating, he continued north. He stopped momentarily to look at an animated information panel suspended over the southbound lanes. It glowed bright against the growing darkness. The sign blinked a warning of congestion due to an accident. The bus, probably.

As he watched the streaming traffic, he playfully thought of the vehicles in ecological terms: the tandem trailers were the elephants. The motor homes were the dumb cows, the SUVs the ... the wildebeest, the Japanese econoboxes the deer, and the police cars the carnivores. He smiled. And the potholes, the pathogens. But there were no potholes, not even cracks on the roadway. For that matter, he�d seen no police cars either. Not much need for them with cameras to detect accidents and speeders. He worried that they�d catch him, too, but decided that the cameras probably didn�t cover the median.

Back in Canada, he�d seen road crews. But this high-tech Route 81X seemed to have no need for them. Adrian shivered with the thought that not only was he the first ever median ecologist, but also the only human being in the entire ecological system. Feeling lonely, he turned away from the traffic. The median was dark now, and forbidding. But even though he seemed to be invisible to the passing traffic, it would be good to be able to pee without feeling he was making a spectacle of himself.

He felt he�d gotten far enough away from the bus that it was safe to attempt to hitchhike. But there was no way anyone would stop to pick him up at night�especially not the way he was dressed.

He saw another clump of trees ahead. There, he�d stay until morning. Finding a soft patch free of weeds or roots at the base of a tree, he plopped down and closed his eyes.

He woke in the dark, frozen. He curled into a ball, but that didn�t help. He tried pulling his arms inside the litter bag and warming his hands between his thighs. Then he ducked his head inside as well, breathing through pursed lips in an attempt to warm the air a little. He wished he�d not been so careless with the jumpsuit.

Sleep came hard.

* * * *

Adrian rose shortly after sunrise, cold, hungry, thirsty, and far from rested. His eyes on the sun with its promise of future warmth, he ran in place, trying to generate some heat. Yes, the sun would soon enough fill one of his needs, but as to the others ... He�d have to try flagging down a northbound vehicle for a lift without delay. His best shot would be to try flagging trucks with Canadian license plates.

He walked to the edge of the median and soon saw that not only was flagging down a Canadian truck impossible, but there was no way he�d be able to flag down anyone. He was next to the high-speed lane, and with the continuous heavy traffic, no vehicle could as much as slow down. He looked across to the slow lane. It was better, but not much better.

As he stared into the traffic, the realization slowly grew on him that it was hopeless�all of it. He�d never get across those four lanes. The whole idea of fleeing back to Canada was a silly dream. He clenched his fists. There was nothing else to do but give himself up. He shuddered at the thought of wearing neon orange again. I can�t go back.

He gazed across the roadway. Even if he really did want to surrender, he�d have to cross to the other side and then hunt around for a cop.

He chose to continue walking north. He knew what was in the other direction�nothing. And the bus certainly would have been removed by now. He started walking, trying to think of something to do.

A road sign caught his eye: �Unlawful to Pick Up or Discharge Hitchhikers.� He sighed and kept walking. Giving himself up was the only thing he could do.

Maybe he�d encounter a car with a flat tire or something. He hadn�t seen one all the previous day, but maybe he�d get lucky. And maybe it�ll be a Canadian going home. He shook his head. Stop dreaming.

He walked at the edge of the road, looking for a patrolling police car. He�s seen none so far, but he couldn�t conceive of a major highway without police cars�even if there were automatic cameras. Maybe, he�d just been unlucky so far. He thought about emergency telephones. But he couldn�t remember seeing one. Canadian highways had them at regular intervals�but now that he thought about it, it seemed superfluous; everyone had a cell phone in his pocket these days. His hand automatically moved to where a pants pocket should be. But of course, he didn�t have a cell phone�or a pocket.

As he walked, he grew increasingly hungry and, with his black plastic tunic absorbing the head of the sun, thirsty. Soon, thirst predominated. As the sun neared the zenith, he could think of nothing but water. He lowered his eyes to the ground�and saw the litter, and saw it in a new light. Maybe he could find some food among all the wrappers and such. And more importantly, water.

Now, he actively sought out litter, going from one side of the median to the other at the sight of white cups against the green. On his third try, he picked up a cup, pulled off its lid still holding a straw, and found clear liquid within�melted ice, probably. Again, he worried about disease, but only briefly; disease was abstract whereas dying of thirst wasn�t. He downed the liquid�delicious with a slight hint of cola flavor. Soon, he found more liquid-bearing cups, enough to slake his thirst. His lips stretched into a tight smile.

Those littering drivers he�d formerly held in such contempt might well have saved his life.

His hunger grew steadily more intense, and he began to seek out food wrappers as well as drink cups. He found a few, but they held no scraps of food. Many of the wrappers had little bits of paper torn out�nibble marks. With a shiver, Adrian realized he was competing with the rats for food.

But he had to get food. He decided he�d just have to walk across the road. Cars will either stop or they won�t. He stepped onto the road but then darted back. He couldn�t bring himself to risk death that way.

Exhausted, starved, and thirsty again, he trudged onward, hoping to encounter a miracle. And if he didn�t, maybe tomorrow, Saturday, traffic would be lighter and he�d be able to cross.

A flash of orange in the distance caught his attention. He froze with recognition. His jumpsuit soccer ball lay at the edge of the median. Still a round orb, but dirty. He couldn�t help but think it was an omen�that the police were pursuing him. He retrieved the ball, but couldn�t bear the idea of deconstructing it and putting on the jumpsuit. After dark, he would. The hated garment of incarceration would provide warmth.

* * * *

Dan was out sick with a strep throat and Philip had been grounded for talking back to his mom, so that left only three members of the Screaming Beavers in attendance at the patrol meeting. Still, it was hard for Kiefer Bernhardt, the patrol leader, to deliver the news that his dad had been suddenly called away for an emergency meeting in Albany and wouldn�t be able to take them on their weekend patrol campout. Kiefer held onto a map as one might a security blanket.

�What?� Alex shouted, the noise reverberating off the basement walls of the rec room. �That stinks!�

�But we�ve already bought our food and packed and everything,� Paul said in a pleading voice.

�Yeah, I know� Kiefer smoothed out the map on the ping-pong table. �But we can still go on a day-long hike tomorrow.�

�It�s not the same,� said Paul.

Kiefer pressed on. �My brother�s home from college this weekend. He said he�d drive us out in the morning and pick us up sometime after we�ve finished dinner.�

Paul wrinkled his nose.

�Wait a minute,� said Alex. �You mean there�ll be no adults with us?�

�Yeah.�

�This could be fun, then,� said Alex.

�Yeah,� Kiefer said with enthusiasm, happy that his patrol wasn�t angry with him any more. �But we can�t go to Shendegen Hollow. Jay�s car doesn�t have four-wheel drive.�

�Where�ll we go then?� said Paul.

�Anywhere.� Kiefer ran his hand over the map. �Well, anywhere we can drive to in an hour. As long as it�s safe.�

�What do you mean, safe?� asked Alex in a suspicious voice.

�I don�t know,� said Kiefer. �Jay said it. I think he means some place public where a pervert or something won�t come and try to molest us.�

Alex and Paul laughed.

Kiefer indicated the map. �Come on, guys. Let�s figure out where we�re going.�

Paul leaned in over the map and pointed to a road that had been highlighted with a red marker. �What�s this?�

�Route 81X,� Kiefer said with a touch of pride. �My dad�s the chief landscape architect for the whole road.�

�Landscape architect?� Alex giggled. �You mean he designs trees?�

�Well, actually, he does. Treez with a �z.��

Again, Paul wrinkled his nose. �You mean all the trees on that road�s median are phony?�

�They�re real. Dad says 81X is probably the last highway that�ll have real nature. After that it�ll be all Neoturf and stuff from Treezcorp.� Kiefer touched the tip of his forefinger to the red line at Whitney Point, the closest point to home. �The median�s great. Lots of clumps of trees, bushes, and growth-limited grass so it never needs mowing.�

�Wish my yard had that,� said Alex.

�Dad says it�s a thin island of nature.� Kiefer moved his finger along the line. �It goes clear up to Canada.�

�Then...� Paul hesitated. �Then why don�t we take our day hike on the 81X median?�

Alex and Kiefer looked at him. Then Kiefer, realizing Paul was serious, laughed. �Come on!�

�Why not?� said Paul. �Your brother could let us off, and we could hike as far as we want, and it would still be easy for him to find us and pick us up after dinner.�

Alex glanced at Kiefer. �You know, it�s not a bad idea.� He laughed. �And on a median strip, you wouldn�t get us lost like last time.�

�What? I never got you��

�Maybe it�s not a good idea,� said Paul, distantly. �If there was a motorcycle gang or something coming up the median, we�d be toast.�

�Oh, come on,� said Alex. �81X is perfectly safe. Zillions of people�ll be able to see us all the time.�

�But what if there�s an escaped leopard loose on the median?�

�Paul!� Alex threw a glance at the ceiling, and then laughed.

�Jeez!� Kiefer said in frustration. �Anyway, it wasn�t a leopard. It was a bear.�

�What?� said Alex, swiveling to face Kiefer.

�Happened before you moved here. Some gypsy or something. His van broke down and his bear got loose.�

�Come on!�

�Scout�s honor,� swore Kiefer. �He was afraid of getting in trouble, so he set traps for the bear.�

�It�s true,� said Paul. �And the bear wandered into the road, and a truck hit it. Killed it.� Paul whispered as if he were telling a ghost story. �And the gypsy died a few months later of a very mysterious disease.�

�Wow!� said Alex.

�Okay, okay,� said Kiefer. �That was a long time ago. I like the median idea. Let�s just do it.�

�But zillions of people,� said Paul. �What about going to the bathroom? I�d like to go without it being show time.�

�Yeah,� said Kiefer.

�Hey!� said Alex after a few seconds where no one spoke. �My dad has an ice-fishing tent. There�s a big round hole in the bottom of it. I�ll, um ... borrow it.� From his advantage of one year of age and eight inches of height, Alex glowered down at Paul. �Satisfied?�

�I guess.�

�Good.� Kiefer folded up the map. �A wild campout. No video games, no cell phones.�

�Wild?� Alex barked a laugh. �On a highway median?�

�Well, other than that. And an ecological campout. Everything packed in and out.�

�Except what�s under the ice-fishing tent,� said Alex.

Paul giggled.

�Tomorrow morning, eight o�clock. Here,� said Kiefer, conscious of acting the part of patrol leader. �I�ll bring a cell phone so I can call Jay to pick us up. �Kay?�

�Yeah.�

�Fine.�

* * * *

Robert Bernhardt pulled his car into the lot at the New York Center for Disease Control. He had no idea why he, a landscape architect, had been called to a meeting of epidemiologists, and he was miffed that he�d not been able to find out why. And on a Saturday morning, yet.

He got off the elevator at the twenty-third floor, and as he walked into the posh conference room, he promised himself that he�d make it up to Kiefer�and to Kiefer�s Scout patrol.

He gazed out the window, down at a portion of Interstate 787. Ugly as sin! The median�s vegetation seemed nothing but weeds. Probably ragweed. As he watched, a low ground fog began to drift in over the road. Another manifestation of the strange weather of late. His lips stretched into a thin smile; the fog did make the median look less ugly.

At the sound of a door opening at the far end of the room, Robert turned and saw two men come in, paper coffee cups in hand.

One of them stepped briskly forward and extended his free hand. �Ah, Dr. Bernhardt. Good of you to come.� He gave a hint of a bow. �I�m Zoltan Latzko.� Nodding toward the door, he added, �Coffee?�

�No, thank you.� Robert smiled. �And it�s Mr. Bernhardt.�

�Ah.�

They exchanged introductions: Zoltan Latzko was an epidemiologist with the National Center for Infectious Diseases, and the other man, Dwayne Bates, a heavy-set individual with what looked like a permanent scowl, was the Assistant Director of the New York State Emergency Management Office.

�I rather imagine, Mr. Bernhardt�� said Zoltan while indicating that they should all sit, ��that you�ve heard of the Route 80 Effect?�

�You mean that the ecologies north and south of 80 are different because animals can�t cross the road?�

�Just a slight difference,� said Zoltan. �Since animals can still cross at intersections, the difference is only equivalent to a hundred miles or so.� He raised a hand as if flourishing an imaginary piece of chalk. �And not merely Route 80. We have a grid of mini ecologies delineated by the interstate highway system.� He caught Robert�s eyes with an intent stare. �But your Route 81X median has a sharply different ecology. Dangerously different, perhaps.�

�Dangerously different?� Robert canted his head. �Surely, you don�t mean the small cats, do you?�

While Dwayne seemed almost angry, Zoltan appeared surprised. �Oh, you know about the cats, do you?�

�My grounds foreman�s mentioned them,� said Robert. �They�re rare. Cute little fuzzballs, he called them.�

�Cute?� Dwayne said almost at a bellow. �They carry a serious disease.�

�We don�t know that for sure,� said Zoltan in an annoyed voice. He turned to Robert. �We�ve been seeking the vector for a condition that�s affected a significant number of inmates in the New York prison population. They have some sort of immune deficiency. And yes, it could be serious.�

�An immune deficiency?� said Robert, feeling a response was expected.

�No. Not what you think,� said Zoltan. �A bug of some sort. Unknown to us. The symptoms are tiredness and passivity, listlessness and a diminishing of the will, and, we think, an increased susceptibility to other diseases.�

�That�s not exactly a bad thing with prisoners,� said Dwayne, appearing almost jovial after his previous outburst. �I mean the passivity and tiredness.�

�It sounds like mono,� said Robert. �Mononucleosis.�

�Yes. But it does not go away.� Zoltan exchanged a glance with Dwayne before continuing. �All right. This is confidential information.� He paused. �It seems that if a person with the virus then contracts one of a number of other viral infections�death could possibly occur.�

�Could possibly occur?� Dwayne sputtered. �This has all the signs of a possible pandemic. It needs drastic actions�it could be a new AIDS.�

�Come, now,� said Zoltan dismissively. �That�s a great overstatement.�

Dwayne�s face reddened and Robert tried to calm the situation with a question. �Where did the bug come from?�

�We didn�t know until a few days ago.� Dwayne swiveled away from Zoltan. �There was an accident with a Department of Corrections bus carrying inmates. Many of them had been doing litter pick up on Route 81X for months. They were given routine medical checkups�automated blood analysis and that sort of thing�and many of them had the virus.�

�The longer an inmate had been assigned to the 81X litter collection,� said Zoltan, �the more of the virus he had.� He smiled as Sherlock Holmes might have after solving a case. �So we�re reasonably confident they contracted it on the 81X median. And the cats seem to be the likely carriers.�

�That�s crazy,� Robert blurted without thinking. �How could it have developed in the tiny confines of the median?�

�Not so tiny,� said Zoltan. �Not wide, surely, but very long. And in any case, we�ve just gotten a road-kill cat. It�s being analyzed now.�

�We think the virus came from an escaped Eurasian sun bear,� said Dwayne in a flat voice. �And then it mutated.� He sighed. �Global warming seems to encourage new strains of diseases. We can�t take chances with them.�

�An escaped bear?� Robert couldn�t help the incredulity in his voice.

�It�s a long story.� Dwayne stared down at his coffee cup, as if he were addressing it and not Robert. �We�ve decided to sterilize the median��

�You�ve decided!� said Zoltan.

Dwayne ignored the interruption. �We�ll have to close the highway and send choppers over to sterilize everything on the median�from Binghamton to the Canadian border.�

�That�s wrong-headed,� said Zoltan with a scowl. �We can�t exterminate an entire ecological system. It�s monstrous. An isolated, narrow world.�

�We have to,� said Dwayne. �We�ll blanket the area with announcements, then close the highway and then just do it.�

�That world isn�t the only thing that�s narrow,� said Zoltan under his breath.

Dwayne slapped a hand to the conference table, shaking the coffee cups. �Look. We�ve been lucky so far. The prison population is automatically isolated. No physical contact with non-prisoners. Even the doctors treating them wear surgical gloves. Which is good because Zoltan here says the virus could possibly be spread by physical contact.�

Zoltan threw himself back in his chair. �Could possibly!�

Dwayne glowered at the epidemiologist. �I�m not going to trust the safety of New Yorkers to luck.�

Zoltan glowered back.

Robert, again attempting to lower the heat, asked, �What do I have to do with all this?�

�We need to know how deep the turf cover is,� said Dwayne calmly. �And how stable is it? Could it be excavated without sending dust into the air?�

�Very stable. The turf depth is less than six inches, except under the trees where there�s a four-foot pit. Under that, it�s 337-asphalt.� Robert narrowed his eyes. �Why?�

�We want the median replaced with Neoturf and Treez as fast as possible,� said Dwayne. �Can your company handle it?�

Robert sucked in a breath. This would be a very lucrative contract. �It�ll be expensive.�

�It�s been in the works for some time,� said Dwayne. �Artificial is cheaper and easier to maintain, and biologically cleaner.� He pursed his lips. �But now it�s an emergency. We don�t need to send it to bid.�

Robert considered the logistics. �Unfortunately the EPA now considers the asphalt binder we used a mutagen. This will require some care. But I think��

Zoltan�s cell phone rang. He extracted it, stared at the caller ID for a moment, then excused himself and hurried to a corner of the conference room where he held a whispered conversation. Robert and Dwayne watched in silence.

After less than a minute, Zoltan returned to the table. �They�ve tested the cat,� he said. �Not a trace of the virus.� He sat heavily. �I expected otherwise. Cats groom themselves and each other. I�d have thought we�d see the virus.� He turned suddenly to Robert. �Is there another population of mammals on the strip?�

Robert shook his head. �Not that I know of.�

�Hmm.� Zoltan stroked his chin. �Probably rats. There are always rats.� He pounded a fist softly on the table. �Yes,� he said, as if to himself. �The cats must have acquired an immunity to the disease. Probably the virus is carried by rats.� He turned to Dwayne. �You can�t sterilize the median now.�

�What?�

�We need time to study this. A cat bite or scratch could be an inoculation against the disease.�

�Pure speculation�since we know birds don�t carry the virus either.� Dwayne drew a hand across his forehead. �And unfortunately, we don�t have the time.�

�Why not?� Zoltan demanded.

Dwayne�s cell phone rang. Seemingly by reflex, he pulled it out and flipped it open.

�Bates,� he said.

�What?� Dwayne leaned forward in his chair. �Why the hell didn�t you tell me this before?�

�Any sign of him?�

�Do? What the hell can we do?� Dwayne flipped his phone closed.

�What is it?� said Zoltan.

�There�s an inmate missing.� Dwayne shoved the phone back in his pocket. �From the bus. A kid. It looks like he ran away in the confusion of the accident.�

�And you just found this out now?�

�The paperwork was lost in the explosion,� said Dwayne in a flat voice. �And the guards were hospitalized.� He sighed. �We have a sweep out for the kid. In his prison jumpsuit, he should be easy to spot.�

�He hasn�t been so far,� said Zoltan.

�We haven�t been looking for him until now.� Dwayne shook his head, slowly. �None of the highway surveillance cameras have picked him up. He�s probably still hiding out on the median strip.�

�That�s impossible,� said Zoltan. �It�s been days. He can�t still be on the median.�

�Wait a minute,� said Robert, aghast. �He might be on the median. And if he is, then what? Is he going to be ... sterilized along with the trees?�

�I hope he is on the median,� said Dwayne.

�What? The kid�s a criminal. So sterilize him. Is that it?�

�If he�s on the median, we�ll apprehend him.�

�How?� Zoltan asked.

�First,� said Dwayne, in flat voice, �the traffic will be diverted off the road. Then choppers with narrow-focus sound warnings will fly along the median. A few minutes later, another chopper, flying low, will visually search for possible stalled cars on the median and other irregularities. And in his orange prison jumpsuit, the kid will stand out like a school bus on a golf course.�

�Maybe.� Robert pointed out the window. �But if you hadn�t noticed, there�s a ground fog over Route 787. Probably means 81X is none too clear either.�

Zoltan clenched a fist. �Mr. Bernhardt is right. You�ve got to stop this sterilization.�

�I�m sorry, Zoltan.� Dwayne put an elbow on the table and lowered his head onto a closed fist. �Homeland Security has taken it out of my hands.�

* * * *

�Remind me why we�re doing this,� said Alex as he trudged along under the weight of a heavy pack. They had just encountered yet another cluster of well-behaved trees.

Kiefer, in the lead, weighed down by his own pack and with binoculars hanging around his neck, was happy for the excuse to stop. They�d been hiking for over an hour. He turned to Alex. �I thought it would be fun.�

From behind, Paul said, �The fog is sort of neat.� He moved forward and the three formed a small circle. �But it�s like hiking in a big treadmill.� Paul had brought a walking staff from home, and he leaned on it. �Our only choice is direction and even that doesn�t matter. It�s all the same. Grass, trees, grass, trees. Even getting lost is more fun.�

�Yeah,� said Alex. �Borrring!� He leaned back, resting his pack against a tree. �And you had to make it a wild campout�no computers, radios, video games, cell phones except yours.� He looked off at the traffic passing like ghosts in the mist. �Yeah, wild.�

�I guess it maybe wasn�t such a good idea,� said Kiefer. Then he brightened. �Hey. What if we set up for lunch now and after we eat, I�ll phone my brother to pick us up here.� He smiled with a thought. �We could all go to a movie together or something�a patrol movie.�

Alex chuckled. �Patrol movie. Yeah.�

�Let�s set up a tent,� Paul said abruptly.

�A tent?� Kiefer wrinkled his nose. �Why?�

�Because,� Paul glanced at the haze-enshrouded streams of traffic, the aluminum highway display board stanchions, the Styrofoam roadside litter. �Because it would make me feel like we�re real.�

Kiefer and Alex exchanged amused glances; Paul, at twelve, was a year and a half younger then the others and something of a mascot, and sometimes he said very cool things. �Yeah, fine,� said Kiefer.

�What�s for lunch?� said Alex as he unsnapped his pack and let it slip to the ground.

Kiefer slipped out of his pack. �Spaghetti, tube steak, purple bug juice, and butterscotch toothpaste.� He extracted the patrol cook kit and camp stove from his pack frame.

Paul set up the pop-tent. Kiefer set up the stove, filled the cook kit�s saucepan with water, and threw in the spaghetti and hot dogs. Alex poured the grape drink powder and lots of sugar into the aluminum coffee pot, added water, stirred and sampled the result. Then, out of need, Alex set up the ice-fishing tent.

Afterward, the three sat cross-legged around the camp stove, waiting for the water to boil.

Alex looked lazily toward the northbound traffic. �Doesn�t it ever stop?�

�There�s always traffic,� said Kiefer. �My brother says that since they started metered access, there�s constant traffic 24/7.� He reached into his pants pocket. �And speaking of my brother, I�d better call to get him to pick us up.� He withdrew a cell phone and set it on the ground where it disappeared in the high grass. �But first, where are we?� He took up his binoculars and scanned the southbound road. �Mile marker 34.3. And let�s see ... Two miles until the Whitney Point exit.�

�Hey!� Paul called out, pointing toward a motion in the nearby grass. �Look at that!�

�Hey, neat,� said Alex. �Mice.�

Kiefer swiveled his binoculars to the grass and refocused. �No, I�ve had pet mice and I�ve had pet rats. These are definitely rats.� He lowered the binoculars. �But boy, are they ever small!�

Paul crawled over and scooped one up in his hand. �They�re friendly.� He played with the little rat, letting it run up his shirt and sit on his shoulder.

The other boys caught their own rats and played with them while their spaghetti gelled.

Paul happened to look away. He froze. �We�re not alone,� he said at almost a whisper. �There�s someone over there.�

Kiefer followed Paul�s gaze and saw a person, made indistinct by distance and fog. He brought his binoculars to his eyes. �Jeez! It�s a man. He�s carrying an orange basketball or something. And it looks like he�s only wearing a garbage bag.�

�Come on!� said Alex.

�He�s not an old guy,� said Kiefer. �He looks like he�s about my brother�s age.� He handed the binoculars to Alex while keeping his eyes on the approaching figure.

�Look at the way he�s moving,� said Alex. �Do you think he�s drunk? Maybe he was so blitzed he just ripped off his clothes.�

Kiefer gave an �I don�t know� shrug.

Paul looked down at his scout uniform and then back at the man. �Maybe,� he said in a slow, dreamy voice. �Maybe he didn�t want to be what his clothes wanted him to be.�

* * * *

Adrian weaved from one side of the medium to the other, looking for Styrofoam encapsulated sustenance. He felt unsteady on his feet from lack of food and he was thirsty, perpetually thirsty.

Angry again at the unfairness of his court trial and conviction, he�d once more stripped off his jumpsuit and converted it into a soccer ball. He carried it as he foraged for water and food. He wondered, though, if he�d last through the day to sleep in it again.

He found a cup with a couple of ounces of melted ice water: a major find, a tiny lake. He threw back his head and downed the precious liquid, licking the last hint of moisture from the cup. He brought his head forward and happened to look, not downward for litter, but forward. He squinted, not trusting his eyes. There among the trees he saw what looked like a tent. Two tents, in fact. Impossible! And stranger still, it looked as if there were people sitting in front of one of them�small people. Island dwarfism with people? No! It�s got to be a mirage? Wishful thinking?

Adrian lurched toward the trees. As he drew closer, he saw that the people weren�t dwarfs, but three kids in American Boy Scout uniforms�and they were sitting in front of food. It smelled wonderful. He came to a stop in front of them, but he couldn�t take his eyes off the boiling pot.

One of the kids, the tallest one, got to his feet. Then the other two stood.

�Hi,� said Adrian.

�Hi,� the tall kid said warily.

They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds.

�Was it that you didn�t want to...� said the smallest kid in a small voice, �didn�t want to get your scout uniform dirty?�

Adrian couldn�t help chuckling. �Technically I still am a scout. Central Escarpment Council, Mississauga, Ontario.� He extended his left hand to the tall kid. I hope American scouts also shake with the left-hand.

The tall kid hesitated, then smiled and shook hands. �I�m Kiefer.� He paused. �But everybody calls me Kif. I�m ... I�m the patrol leader of the Screaming Beavers.� He pointed to the short kid standing beside and a step behind him. �That�s Paul, and��he swiveled his head to his other side��that�s Alex.�

�Hi,� said Alex with a small wave of the hand.

�Are you hungry?� asked Paul.

�I�m famished.� Adrian realized that this time, it was not merely a figure of speech.

Kiefer nodded over at the pot. �It�s probably not going to be any good, but there�s a lot of it. We always make too much.�

Over the next half hour or so, Adrian and the scouts became easy friends. Kiefer had lent Adrian a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Since Adrian was thin and Kiefer big for his age, the fit wasn�t too bad. Adrian had afterward, with a running soccer kick, sent his jumpsuit fifteen or so yards down the median. He, an intramural soccer player, felt embarrassed that he�d not been able to kick it farther.

Having so recently been an active Venture Scout back home in Canada, chatting around a cookout felt natural to Adrian.

�...and the prosecutor hated drugs and hated Canadians and hated Cornell. He said he�d make an example of me.� Adrian, lounging against a tree, took a suck at his butterscotch pudding squeeze tube. �Three months sentence. And so there goes most of my freshman year at Cornell.�

�That stinks!� said Alex.

�My brother�s at Cornell,� said Kiefer. �He�s majoring in computer science. What were you studying?�

�Were.� Adrian gave a bark of a laugh. �I was majoring in forest ecology.� He took a long breath. �But when this is over, I�ll try to get in to the University of Toronto and specialize in the ecology of median strips of divided highways.�

�Ecology of median strips?� said Alex. �For real? I didn�t know you could study that.�

�Well, you probably can�t�yet.� Adrian glanced from one traffic river to the other. �But there is a separate ecology here. It�s like a world, an island�narrow and long. Seeds can get here by birds or wind but not by being carried by mammals.� He felt himself warming to the subject. He really did want to study it at U of T. �Any mammals that do get here are probably the most adventuresome and most intelligent�if they�ve risked crossing the highway. And the ecology isn�t static. I�d guess that the mammals would be moving north because of global warming.� Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he stopped. It wasn�t �cool� to be recklessly enthusiastic.

After a few moments of silence, Paul said, �Here are some moving north right now.� He pointed at the animals, a group of small cats. �They�re cute.�

�Kittens!� Kiefer rolled to his feet and moved slowly forward at a crouch, tempting the cats with butterscotch pudding.

Showing no sign of fear, a cat approached him. Kiefer held out the squeeze tube and moved his other hand to pet the animal.

�No!� shouted Adrian.

The cat darted away and Kiefer turned angrily around.

�Yeah, they�re cute,� said Adrian, getting to his feet. �But they�re full-grown cats. And they�re vicious. Cute, kitten-sized, and vicious.�

�Come on!� said Alex. �Vicious.�

�Killer cats of the narrow world,� said Paul.

�I�m serious,� said Adrian. �One of them mauled me.� He pointed to the bite mark on his hand.

�Jeez!� said Kiefer.

The four watched as the cats skirted around the campsite and continued north.

�Probably following the rats,� said Kiefer.

�You�ve seen the rats?� said Adrian.

�Hey,� said Paul. �What�s going on?� The others turned to look at him. �The traffic.� He pointed. There were far fewer cars and trucks than there had been just minutes earlier.

They stared at the diminishing traffic.

�An accident?� said Alex.

�On both sides?� said Kiefer. �No. I don�t think so.�

Over the next five minutes, the traffic slowed to the occasional car, and then to nothing and the road noise was noticeable by its absence.

�Spooky,� said Paul.

�I wish we had a radio,� said Alex.

Paul looked up the highway display board stanchion to a message panel, but its angle obscured the message. �Wish we could read that.�

�Oh, wait!� Kiefer, apparently remembering he had binoculars hanging down over his shirt, brought them to his eyes. �There�s another display board.�

�What�s it say?� said Alex.

�It says...� Kiefer adjusted the focus. �Highway closed. Exit now. Danger. Do not stop. Do not leave your vehicles.� He aimed lower. �Hey. The rats are running across the road to the other side.�

�They know enough to get away from the cats while they can,� said Adrian.

�Do you see any cats following them?� said Paul.

�No.�

�I wonder what�s going on.� Alex said.

Kiefer lowered his binoculars and turned to Adrian. �I wonder if they�re stopping traffic,� he said, looking at Adrian with a touch of apprehension. �So they can catch you.� He narrowed his eyes. �Are you sure all you did was smoke some marijuana?�

�Yeah,� said Adrian. �That�s all I did.� He felt a tinge of embarrassment as he noticed he�d unconsciously raised his hand in the scout-sign. �Scout�s honor,� he added with a self-effacing smile.

�Come on, Kif,� said Alex. �He�s okay.�

Kiefer smiled. �Yeah, I guess.� He glanced back over the deserted roadways. �Maybe we�d better pack up and follow the rats.�

�Why?� said Alex. �I think we should stay put and see what happens.�

�It�s sort of exciting,� said Paul. �I�d like to stay.�

�Yeah, okay,� said Kiefer. �But let�s pack up anyway. In case we have to leave in a hurry.�

Even with Adrian helping, breaking camp went slowly�degenerating to tag games at times.

�Just like my old troop,� said Adrian, smiling. �Takes forever to pack up because everyone hates to do cleanup.�

�I hate it too,� Kiefer said.

�What�s that?� said Paul, softly, staring off in the distance.

Kiefer used his binoculars. �Looks like a helicopter. It looks like it�s coming this way.�

In silence they watched as the helicopter drew close. When it had gotten almost on top of them, a sound boomed down from it.

�Attention. Danger. Attention.�

�Focused sound waves,� Adrian said under his breath. �Impressive!�

�Attention. Anyone on the Route 81X median. Leave the median at once. Phone 911 if you need assistance. Grave danger. Leave the median at once.�

Paul began jumping up and down, waving frantically at the helicopter. �Hey! There are people down here! We�re on the median.�

�Save your breath,� said Alex. �It�s a drone.�

�A drone.� Kiefer scowled. �That�s dumb. Using a drone for something like this.�

�Phone 911 if you need assistance. Grave danger. Leave the median at once.�

Kiefer reached in his pocket. �My cell phone! Damn it! I�ve lost my phone.�

�Guys,� Adrian said evenly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. �I think we�d better get out of here.�

�I�ve got to find that phone. It�s my brother�s.� Kiefer glanced at the helicopter. �He�ll kill me if I lose it. Anyway, we have time. They wouldn�t warn us and not give us time.�

Kiefer started searching, walking back the way they�d come, peering down into the grass and feeling around with a foot. Alex and Paul joined the search.

Adrian had about decided to threaten them with bodily harm if they didn�t pick up their gear and leave the median, when a horrible scream rent the air. Kiefer keeled over, falling hard to the ground. Adrian sprinted to him. The boy was clutching his bloodied lower leg and howling. Instantly, Adrian understood the situation although he could hardly believe it. Kiefer�s leg was held in a high-tech bear trap. Adrian dropped to his knees. Before his family had moved south from northern Manitoba, he�d seen those traps used to keep Polar Bears out of populated areas. �Don�t struggle! It�s a resistance-adaptive trap. The more you struggle the tighter it gets.�

Paul and Alex jogged up. �Oh, my god!� said Paul, breathing in gasps and looking traumatized.

�The skin�s broken,� said Adrian, examining the trap without success for a release lever. �But, despite what looks like a lot of blood, he�s not seriously hurt.�

�What�ll we do?� Alex said at a whisper.

�You and Paul get out of here!�

�No.� Alex barked the word. �I�m not leaving him.�

�Me neither.� Paul clearly nauseated by the sight of the blood looked away. �Oh no!� he said, his eyes, horror-filled and locked on a distant image.

Far away, two helicopters looming out of the fog progressed slowly but steadily toward them. From the bottom of the front helicopter, a gray gas spewed out, broadening to a cloud as it found the earth below. From the second helicopter, a painfully brilliant violet beam shot out, raking back and forth over the median.

Just then, a wolf howl came from the ground.

Everyone jumped at the sound�except Kiefer.

�Kif�s phone,� Alex called out. He sprinted toward the sound.

While Paul again jumped up and down, waving, trying to get the helicopters to see him, Alex ran the phone to Kiefer. He flipped open the device as he handed it over.

�Why won�t they see us?� Paul wailed as he waved and jumped.

From the phone came a voice. �Kif. Get the hell out of there fast. Kif. Can you hear me?�

Kiefer�s lower lip quivered. He slammed closed the phone and began to cry.

Adrian turned to Alex and Paul. �Get out of here!� he shouted. Then he added. �Hurry! Bring help.� He knew he was only saying that to give them an excuse to run; there was no way on Earth that they�d be able to bring help in time.

Alex and Paul stood as if rooted.

The wolf howled again, but nobody paid attention.

�Go!� Adrian screamed, raising his fist. �Forget your gear. Just go!�

Alex and Paul, as one, ran off the median toward a southbound exit.

Adrian glanced over his shoulder at the helicopters. They were getting very close. And so was the ominous cloud. Then, abruptly, Adrian stood and began running.

�Don�t leave me!� Kiefer cried out.

Adrian sprinted down the median to where he�d kicked his jumpsuit. He swept up the bright orange ball, then yanked and pulled it back into the form of a jumpsuit. Frantically, he began waving it at the helicopters. They should be able to see this even on Mars.

Adrian started to cough as the edge of the cloud enveloped him, but still he waved the neon-orange suit. Then things went dark. He thought he must be blacking out, but saw that the rear helicopter had switched off the purple beam. He thought the front helicopter had stopped emitting the gas, but wasn�t sure. Then he did feel himself blacking out for real.

* * * *

Adrian woke to find himself in a hospital room. The three scouts were there also, Kiefer in bed while Paul and Alex, dressed only in hospital gowns, played cards at a table. Adrian understood why Kiefer was there and could guess why he himself was there. But the other two? He�d seen them run to safety.

Adrian sat up, drawing the attention of the other three. �Hi!� he said.

Kiefer filled him in. �The helicopters stopped, thanks to you, and a few minutes later, an ambulance came and took us all away.�

�This isn�t a local hospital,� said Alex. �It�s in Albany, I think.�

�But you and Paul weren�t hurt,� said Adrian. �Why did they take you two here?�

Alex shrugged.

�All I know is,� said Paul, �that they took enough blood from us to feed a colony of vampire bats.�

Adrian wrinkled his nose. �I don�t understand this.�

Then a nurse came in and Adrian did understand. She wore a jumpsuit rather like his had been but white, and it had pockets. Her hands were protected by surgical gloves and she wore a heavy facemask. She was young and Adrian speculated that without her protective-wear, she would probably look gorgeous.

She came up to his bed.

�This is a quarantine ward, isn�t it?� said Adrian.

�Yes,� she said, her voice muffled. �But no longer for you.� She looked at him critically. �Do you think you can walk?�

Adrian swung his feet to the floor and pulled down on the hem of his gown. �Yeah. I�m fine.�

�Good.� She pointed to the floor. �Step into those slippers and follow me.� She smiled. �And by the way, you have a visitor.�

Adrian smiled, sheepishly. �Could I get dressed, first?�

�Not in here. We�ve got your clothes in an examination room. You�ll have to get dressed there.�

�Is it my dad?� Adrian asked.

�Someone else,� said the nurse. �Let�s go.�

�Yeah. Okay. Just a sec.� Adrian said goodbye and thanks to the scouts. He promised to mail his borrowed clothes back to Kiefer and the two scribbled each other�s e-mail address on a hospital note pad. Then Adrian followed the nurse from the room. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being transferred away because he was a convicted criminal and they didn�t want him to contaminate the scouts.

The nurse slipped off her protective respirator. �You�re quite the hero, you know,� she said, breaking in on his thoughts and giving the lie to them.

�What?�

�The way you saved young Kiefer, there.�

Adrian felt himself blush. Yes, she was attractive. He tried to think of something to say that wouldn�t ring of false modesty, but before he got the chance, she said, �Oh, I forgot. Your father is driving down to bring you back home. He should be here in a few hours.�

�Home? But��

She laughed. �Oh, you�re not a felon anymore. You�ve been pardoned, or your appeal succeeded or something like that. I don�t know the details.�

The news took his breath away. �That�s ... that�s wonderful!�

The nurse gave a good-natured laugh and sent him into an examination room. �I�ll send in your visitor.� As she started to close the door, she added, �You�ll have time to get dressed.�

As Adrian dressed, he noticed that the borrowed shorts and shirt had been laundered. And that made him wonder: Why was everyone quarantined, and why wasn�t he himself quarantined anymore?

A knock interrupted his thoughts. He opened the door and admitted a man he�d never seen before.

�Adrian?� said the man.

�Yes, sir?�

�I�m Robert Bernhardt, Kiefer�s father.� The man sat in one of the two chairs in the room and indicated that Adrian sit in the other. �First, I want to thank you for saving my son�s life.�

�I didn�t do anything special.� Adrian bit his lower lip, then pressed on. �Could you tell me what�s going on? Why are we at this hospital?�

Mr. Bernhardt told him about the �median-disease� virus and that Adrian�s blood analysis showed that he was virus free. �They have an idea what gave you the immunity. But they�re astonished that it developed so fast.�

�And the scouts?� said Adrian. �Kiefer?�

Mr. Bernhardt shook his head slowly.

�I�m sorry to hear that about Kiefer,� said Adrian. �We�ve sort of become friends.�

�Yes. He�s told me that.� Mr. Bernhardt leaned forward. �Did you happen to see any of the dwarf cats on the median?�

�What?� Adrian canted his head. �Yes. Why?�

�And,� Mr. Bernhardt went on, �by any chance, did one of them scratch you?�

�Scratch me.� Adrian pointed to his arm. �It bit me. Here. You can still see the fang marks.�

�Kiefer didn�t get bitten though, did he?�

�No.� After a few seconds of silence, Adrian added, �He was about to be, but I scared away the cat.�

Mr. Bernhardt�s face showed a twinge of sadness followed immediately by a pained smile. He stood and extended his hand. �It�s been good meeting you, Adrian.� He paused with his hand on the doorknob. �Kiefer asked me to go back to the median to pick up the scout gear. And I will.� He sighed. �But I�ve got to find one of those cats,� he said softly, as if to himself. �I�ve got to.�

* * * *

A bright light came from the sky. And then a bad smell came down. A bad cloud. We choked and coughed and coughed blood. We were too weak to hunt. All the rats gone. I am alone. No cat moves. I am hungry. And I feel very bad.