The coiled spring of tension in your chest disappears. A calm washes over you. Dr. Inculta means me no harm, you think.
But this thought is not your own.
Dr. Inculta takes a seat in your living room. "Please, do sit," he beckons. As he sits, he pulls your copy of Cat Winter's In the Shadow of Blackbirds from the coffee table and appears pleased by the cover art.
You do as he asks, unable to look away from his face. Beneath his tranquil, almost friendly glare, you feel something ugly and predatory resides behind his eyes, an ill-defined shape underneath dark waters--something with teeth and claws.
"Plagues," Dr. Inculta laments. "I've seen my share. People get sick, people die. A world upended."
He folds his arms and continues. "You've played it smart. You don't go out, you disinfect everything that comes into your home. No one comes in or out. No sickness. Healthy."
You want to speak, but find yourself unable to. That's okay. This is nice.
Dr. Inculta leans forward in his chair. "I don't want to die, you see? Can you subsist on rotten food? I think not!"
You shake your head. Your pulse quickens. A tension builds in your neck.
"It's been some time since I've seen a plague such as this, some time. You've been sheltered here for, what, two months?"
You nod again and feel the veins in your neck flood.
"A plague invites isolation, and you are no longer alone," he says. "Not for a very, very long time."