Dr. Inculta doesn't seem at all surprised when you break his gaze and run. You catch a glimpse of him grinning as you turn the corner of the living room and race up the stairs.
Panicked instincts take hold. Hide under a bed maybe? Out the bathroom window and hope the "doctor" doesn't cut the door down with a fire axe? Ugh, why did you binge on horror movies last night! You quietly open the linen closet. The top two shelves are where you store books you don't have space for, and you feel a moment of regret not reading The Migration by Helen Marshall.
A small nook at the bottom of the closet, usually used to store spare linens and bedspreads, is empty. You squeeze into the small space and slowly close the door. You stare at the narrow strip of light at the bottom of the door, your breath coming fast and shallow as you try to stay silent. Your body rocks slightly with the pounding of your pulse.
Dr. Inculta's voice echoes from the first floor, slowly growing louder as he nears the foot of the stairs.
"In Babylon, we found those hiding in crates. When we sacked Carthage, we pulled them from temples, thinking they'd appeal to our piety," Dr. Inculta says. "And here, in America, you've only your homes to hide in. But you all always try to hide, and we always find you."
Footsteps slowly thud their way up the stairs.
You press against the drywall at the back of the closet, your feet grinding into the carpet. You feel a tuft of dust reach your nose.
"I have done this countless times, lamb," Dr. Inculta says, his voice growing sharper, tinged with anger. He then loudly sniffs at the air.
A burning takes root in your nose. You clasp your hands around your face, but the sneeze bursts out anyway.
A shadow appears at the bottom of the door. He sniffs at the air again and sighs. His shadow disappears from under the door.
You hear the front door open, then close, and with mixed relief and fear you wonder: was it the dust, or did the virus get you, too?