The death toll in the Twin Cities reaches 1000, Ryan reads.

He casts his eyes aside in disgust. Unknown emotions burn in him like the light of the sun.

Twenty million died last time; how many now?

The room in which Ryan sits is modest—big enough for a bed, a dresser, a tiny bathroom, and a small desk he now hunches over. The walls are concrete, and the door looks reinforced. All of the comforts of home, except it isn’t home, far from it. He was trying to get home. Now all he tries to do is get through the day.

The soldiers told him his quarantine will be over tomorrow. Then he gets to see what fresh hell awaits him next.

The quarantine was for fourteen days, that means he’s been in here for thirteen.

The smile that others had often told him illuminated his face refuses to light.

On the bright side, Ryan has caught up on sleep in here. The bed’s not half bad.

Gotta think positively; even if there’s nothing positive to think about…

The food tray hatch at the bottom of the door rattles open—a tray slides through.

“Twenty hours left, then they have to decide what to do with you,” the soldier says.

Ryan’s words stick in his throat as the soldier stomps away. His voice feels different—as if all control of it has been lost to disuse.

Suddenly the thought of being outside of this room doesn’t seem so appealing. At least in here there’s consistency. There’s no telling what the city’ll look like once I get out of here.

The screen of the phone in Ryan’s lap peers up at him as if to pull him back in.

He checks Abby’s message again, no reply. It’s been almost two weeks, what if ….

A directionless rage wells up inside, forcing his fist into contact with the cement wall, again and again.

Pain overtakes rage as he slumps back onto the floor. There’s blood on the wall, on his clothes, and his hand.

The pain gives him something to focus on—a distraction, purpose.

The emptiness of the last thirteen days has been immeasurable.

As his thoughts sour from the solitude, he tries to recall Abby’s eyes.