Lost Immunity Daniel Kalla (reading women TXT) 📖

Olivia’s school is already in the hospital,” she says.

“You’ll do it, then?”

“I think so.” Amber hesitates. “But can I ask a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Will you give her the shot yourself, Lisa?”

CHAPTER 37

Accessing the vials has proven to be much simpler than replacing them. They’re distributed in sealed packs, so the only opportunity arises when a pack is already open, during a vaccination clinic. Even then, there are so many eyes on the supply. Getting in and out without being noticed, therein lies the real challenge.

CHAPTER 38

If it weren’t for the armed security guard at the door, Lisa would’ve thought she had wandered into the wrong warehouse. Gone are the boxes, pallets, forklifts, and even the lingering scent of lumber. Individual offices are now walled off by temporary partitions and are filled with desks, chairs, and other furniture. Laptop computers are everywhere. There are even a few rugs scattered across the floor.

Lisa is directed by a young man wearing a tight royal-blue suit and no socks to a makeshift office in the far corner of the warehouse where she finds Fiona sitting at her desk, working on her laptop. The only other object on the desk is an analog clock made of walnut, carved in a sleek conical, art deco design.

At the sight of Lisa, Fiona shuts her laptop and rises from her desk. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Lisa swirls a finger in front of her. “Your portable headquarters are impressive.”

“Don’t know about impressive. But certainly necessary, if we want to safely distribute fifty-thousand-plus doses of Neissovax.”

“Looks like a seamless operation to me. No wonder Nathan has so much faith in you.”

“Nathan is generally too trusting,” Fiona says with a small grin as she walks past Lisa and into the abutting cubicle. She returns moments later wheeling in another chair. “Please, sit.”

“Thanks,” Lisa says as she takes a seat.

“Coffee? Tea?”

After Lisa shakes her head, Fiona eases back into her own chair. “What can I do for you, Lisa?”

“You’ve seen the news coverage on Mia’s skin eruption?”

“Impossible to miss.”

“The media is having a field day. We’re issuing a statement this morning to reassure the public. But so far, it hasn’t dulled the appetite for the vaccine. This morning’s clinics are swamped.”

“I triple-checked the batch where her vial came from. Every sample sailed through the quality-control standards.” Fiona sighs. “We never saw anything equivalent to this in the trials.”

“It’s damn rare, is why.”

“This is what Nathan and I worried about when you first approached us. We wanted more time. More trials. As you know, sometimes it takes tens of thousands of inoculations to uncover rarer associations.”

Lisa thinks of the rotavirus vaccine, but she doesn’t say anything. “And sometimes, isolated reactions are just random. And have nothing to do with the vaccine in question.”

“Lisa, I live and breathe Neissovax.” Fiona folds her arms across her chest. “But it’s impossible not to associate this girl’s skin eruption with the vaccine.”

“What I mean is that Stevens-Johnson syndrome can be associated with any number of common drugs. And we wouldn’t be doing such soul-searching if one of them had caused the rash, instead of Neissovax.”

Fiona considers that for a moment while the clock ticks steadily in the background. “I’m not responsible for any other drugs.”

“You’re not responsible for Mia, either.”

“I am responsible for product safety, though.” She views Lisa with somber eyes. “What if there are other Mias?”

“We’ll cross that bridge, when and if we come to it,” Lisa reassures her, relating to the weight of responsibility Fiona must be carrying. “Right now we have a lethal bacterium attacking the vulnerable children in this city. I just saw the latest victim. Postmortem. A little waif of a girl. The antibiotics her older brother got didn’t protect her family. Neissovax might be all we have.”

“I suppose,” Fiona says, lapsing into another silence that is filled only by the ticking of the clock.

Lisa nods to the timepiece. “I don’t know squat about clocks, but I love the design. Reminds me of the dome of the Chrysler Building.”

“Same vintage, too.”

“Are you a collector?”

“Walt always had a passion for clocks, especially the early and midcentury ones. I wouldn’t call him a collector, but he definitely had an eye.” She shows a sad smile. “He gave me that for our fifth anniversary.”

“How sweet.”

“I’ll never forget what he wrote in the card. ‘The wood symbolizes the five years we’ve already had. The clock, all the time left ahead of us.’ ” Fiona looks away. “At least he was right about the wood. It’s the traditional five-year anniversary gift.”

Thinking of her own marriage, Lisa feels a pang of envy that she realizes is completely irrational considering how Fiona’s ended. “Sounds like you two had something incredible.”

Fiona shrugs slightly. “I thought so.”

“Do you mind if I ask…”

“Guillain-Barré syndrome,” Fiona says of the disorder in which the body’s immune system attacks its own nervous system, causing debilitating weakness.

“But most people survive that, don’t they?”

“His hit so quickly. Just ate his nerves up. He went from jogging one morning to not being able to stand by dinnertime. The next day he couldn’t breathe on his own. He ended up on a ventilator, and then developed pneumonia. Everything went wrong from there. So many complications. His body just shut down. He was dead in seventy-two hours.”

“God, that must’ve been so hard for you.”

“A lot harder for Walt,” Fiona murmurs.

“Do they know what caused it?” Lisa asks, aware that most cases of Guillain-Barré syndrome are caused by a haywire immune response to an infection or, though far less frequent, even to a vaccine.

“It was flu season,” Fiona says as she reaches over and adjusts the position of the clock. “It’s ancient history now, anyway.”

“Some things last forever.”

Fiona’s cheeks and forehead flush slightly. “You didn’t come here to talk about clocks. Or Walt.”

“No. But thank you for sharing,” Lisa says, nodding solemnly. “Actually, Fiona, I was hoping to ask you a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I have a niece. Olivia. She’s six. Sassy as anything. Would mouth off