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“That’s not the briefing we got.” Aang turns his glower on me.

“Go easy,” Gretchen hisses, then tucks her bright pink hair behind her ear. “We’re good with all that. Chain of command or whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

Aang’s resentful look doesn’t quite match with what Gretchen’s saying, but I shrug it off. We stand in silence for a while, the awkward growing like a colony of bacteria in a Petri dish.

Gretchen clears her throat. “Okay, so we work like this—the virus cells come to us already pre-generated and in a monoculture in each dish. I inspect the samples and do the data workup on the front end. If we need to refine the samples more, Wyatt suits up and does all that in the HCL next door.”

Wyatt, the lean, shaggy-haired man, gives me a mock salute. “I also play some mellow tunes for all of us to vibe to.” He hitches a thumb at the record player on his desk.

Gretchen continues, “After that, we each take our set of samples and get to work. I could give you a rundown of our findings so far, but that would probably take a month, at the least. Suffice it to say, this virus is smallpox on steroids. It’s horseshoe-like structure and ability to infect more than simply the nucleus of the host cell—” She throws her hands up. “Well, you know the rest. I’ve seen some of your data out of Austin.”

“You have?” I focus on Gretchen, at least she seems to be the most receptive to my presence. “I didn’t think anyone actually checked my findings. I’ve been working on the envelope. I feel like that’s the key, but I’ve yet to find any way to break it down without killing the surrounding cells. The virus is too cytopathic.”

“We started there, then realized that even if we pierce the envelope, the replication proceeds at the same pace, possibly even faster,” Evie says then tosses her long hair over her shoulder. “By the way, I read your paper on angiotensin-converting enzyme statins onCoronavirus Epoch in theNew England Journal of Medicinetwo years ago. Solid.” She offers her fist.

“Wow.” I hesitantly reach out and bump it. “Thanks.”

Aang rolls his eyes. “Kiss ass.”

Gretchen moves closer, her eyes going wide. “So, about Juno’s Miracle …”

Valen. She’s asking about Valen. Whatever rapport I was just building deflates like a sad balloon. “I don’t know any more than you do.”

Aang scoffs. “Sure you don’t.” He points a finger at me. “I swear to god if we’re here and this whole ‘cure’ thing is just a bullshit campaign promise from your sister—smoke and mirrors for the cameras—I’ll?—”

Gene edges up to get in front of me. “I wouldn’t keep going with that, son.” His voice is sterner than I’ve ever heard it. “Especially not with that finger-pointing nonsense. Keep your powder dry.”

The wrinkle between Aang’s eyes turns into a chasm. “The whole thing is impossible. Blood isn’t magic. We all know it, but we’re so damn desperate to grab onto something,anything, that we’ll jump at the chance for snake oil. That’s what your sister was betting on, and now here we are, standing around with our dicks in our hands.” He scoffs at Gene. “Oh, back off. I wouldn’t touch a hair on her mousy head. At ease, soldier.”

“It’s not snake oil. I was there when it happened.” I glance back at the doors and try to ignore the ‘mousy’ insult. “The guy from the press conference is supposed to be here for us to draw his blood, and then we’ll all see what we’re working with. We’ll all know the truth.”

“When?” Aang asks.

“Now, I guess.” I glance at my watch. “Or maybe in an hour or so. Soon. But he’ll be here.” I’m just talking out of my ass at this point. I have no clue if or when he’ll show up.

“Don’t mind Aang. He’s all bark.” Evie smirks.

He turns and lets out a rather realistic ‘woof’ at her. “Bitch.” But he doesn’t say it with any rancor.

“You love me. Anyway, what’s the plan?” Evie backs away toward her desk. “I’m a decent stick, so I can take the samples from him. Wait, do you remember how many vials I can get before I have to stop? Don’t want to kill the guy on the first go. It’s been a while since I’ve had to get so hands-on with someone.”

Aang snorts a laugh. “Facts.”

“Oh, shut up.” She turns and heads toward a supply cabinet. “We’ll need to send a few vials off to Atlanta via same-day courier—I think it’s the Marines? Anyway, Atlanta wants a crack at it, too.”

“They don’t have a shot. Not on my watch.” Aang turns and swaggers away. “I got this.”

“I’ll process the samples in the HCL for us to work on.” Wyatt, who speaks more quietly than any of the others, stares expectantly at the door. “Once he gets here.”

My phone beeps, and I sling my backpack around to my front to dig it out. I have a text from an unknown number.

“Your cell is working?” Gretchen digs around in her pocket and pulls hers out. “SOS for me. Damn.”

I’m waiting. Ninth floor.

Huh? I stare at my phone. “What’s on the ninth floor?” I ask.

“Up there?” Wyatt leans against one of the long tables. “I think it’s called like the Washington Suite or something. I don’t know.”