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I watch the video screen as Dr. DaSilva taps some keys on a nearby computer. In the few seconds it takes her to perform that task, Margo slowly walks toward me and shows me a message on her handheld device. It’s from Maddy:

Me Belinda sick. Skin pain. Sores. Bad heads.

In my sick, confused state it takes me longer than it should to understand that both Maddy and Belinda also have been struck by Newbola Strong.

Then Dr. DaSilva begins talking excitedly.

“Lamont, you can try taking an experimental formula that my team has created. It’s not been thoroughly tested, of course,” she says.

“Then give me anuntested antidote,” I say. “Anything. Send me that or send me a gun so I can shoot everyone. This is horrible.”

Anna closes her eyes for a few seconds. When she opens them she says, “We know nothing about its effectiveness. We know nothing about side effects. It is not ready to even risk testing on the severely suffering patients being held in the army barracks.”

“Just give it to us,” I say. “I think every one of us would agree that any side effect cannot possibly be as bad as the symptoms.”

She speaks.

“There is a model of the capsule being formulated at the confidential pharma creation lab on 124th Street. If you could send someone up to 350 East Twen—”

“I can’t send someone,” I tell her. “We’re all too sick. Way too sick. We can barely move. Tell the lab to set the medication next to an open windowsill on the south side of their building.”

I am, of course, hoping that I have enough remaining mental power to get the medication to us.

Dr. DaSilva says, “Will do.”

I break the connection with her and then bow my head. I try desperately to make my way through the pain and fever that have invaded my brain.Focus, Lamont. Unleash the power. Focus, Lamont. Harness the power and let it move forward. Harness and work. Work. Just work.

I keep trying. I stay focused

I squint hard. I think. I work. I focus.

I open my eyes. Then I look down at my hands.

I am now holding a small bottle of tiny green pills.

I distribute them quickly to my team. Then I invoke my recently dormant atomic dissolve-and-rebuild power to mind-messenger two pills to Maddy and Belinda.

CHAPTER 102

WE ALL GET better. Quickly. Easily. Our extraordinary muscle aches disappear. The raspy, burning soreness in our throats disappears as well.

But, as has been consistent in our lives lately—the best news is almost always followed by the worst news.

When I contact Dr. DaSilva to let her know about our almost miraculous recovery results, a different person appears on the screen, a young man I’ve never seen or heard of before.

He cannot be more than twenty-five years old. He wears a black T-shirt along with large glasses in thick black frames. He is a no-nonsense, very self-important sort. He waits for no explanation or introduction.

“Dr. DaSilva is unavailable to take this call. Therefore, I have been tasked with responding.”

The terse voice? The formal manner? The enormous seriousness of this young man is confusing to me. What’s going on?

“Who are you?” I ask, but I have already formed an opinion. I believe this young man is likely an AI creation. So many people these days are living in a world of bots. Dr. DaSilva must have generated an assistant to help with her workload.

“My name is David Preston Klehr, and I am—”

Suddenly the man claiming to be David Preston Klehr disappears from the screen and is immediately replaced by Dr. DaSilva herself. At least, I think it is Dr. DaSilva herself.

“My apologies, Lamont,” she says in a nervous voice filled with anxiety. “I am sorry, but David is my finest subordinate. I task him with taking my calls when I am unavailable.”