Sick as the man appears to be, he's quick on his feet. "Please," he calls out, "I just need to wash my hands."
You backpedal on the sidewalk and place an open palm forward. "Ease up, pal, six feet rule."
He slows down to a light shuffle. For every inch he steps forward, you take one back. You think back on what you read in SARS: A Case Study in Emerging Infections.
The man grins. "Fancy that," he says. "You say stop, but I just go-go-go."
You match his step, maintaining the distance. "Look, man, I thought you were in some kind of trouble--"
The man coughs open mouthed. "And you checked on me," he says. "Very kind."
You sneak glances up and down the street. Dark silhouettes cut the shapes of people behind curtains and blinds in nearby houses. Porch lights go out one by one. A voice calls from a front door, "Get away from him, he's sick!"
The man frowns. "So that's it, huh? Healthy? Sick? I have a name." He increases his pace. "Don't you want to know my name?"
You pivot on your heels and break into a sprint. "Just stay away from me, okay?"
Over your shoulder, you see him hunch forward and hack. You stop and watch.
"They lied to us, you know?" the man says. "Six. Sixty. Wanna guess the right distance?"
You feel the beginnings of inflammation in your chest, the ushering of something horrible and respiratory.
"Not far enough," the man laughs and laughs and laughs.