Then I head down to the kitchen, where Rosaleen is perched on the counter beside her baby brother, holding a bottle for him. She says she knows how to do it—that she’s watched her mother and Chelsea do it a thousand times. Thank fuck for observant kids.

“But you’re gonna have to burp him,” she tells me, and then explains how it’s done. Carefully, I lift him from the seat, holding him with straight arms like a bomb that could detonate at any moment. I follow Rosaleen’s instructions and bring him to my shoulder, patting and rubbing his back.

“Like this?” I ask the seven-year-old.

She nods encouragingly.

“You are officially my second in command,” I tell her. “You and me together are gonna kick this virus’s ass.”

She giggles. “Okay.”

I feel a ridiculous amount of pride when Ronan lets out a deep, rumbling belch that any grown man would be impressed to produce. I’m not going to tell the others, but I think he’s my favorite.

As I congratulate him, I notice his ass feels heavy.

Wet.

I look at his sister. “I think he needs to be changed.”

Her face turns wary and she raises her little hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a kid.”

“Now you play the kid card?” I ask her.

She shrugs without pity.

Okay. I can do this.

I’ve been arrested—spent time in lockup with genuinely dangerous guys. I’ve been in street fights without rules where no one was coming to break it up—and I’ve won. I’ve conquered the insurmountable challenge of earning a law degree and dealing with the self-centered jackasses who are my clients without committing aggravated assault.

It’s a diaper. How hard could it be?

I carry Ronan to his room, lay him on the pad on his dresser, and look him in the eyes. “Work with me, buddy, okay?”

Then, with one hand on his chest so he doesn’t roll away, I Google it.

Gotta love modern technology. Bomb-making and baby-changing diagrams at your fingertips. I get the diaper off, get him cleaned up with the wipes. I squeeze some white pasty shit out of a tube onto his ass, because I’m not sure if he’s red, but it’s there, so I’ll use it. I lift his kicking legs and slide a fresh diaper underneath him.

And then—without warning—a hot stream of piss, like a fireman’s hose, arches in the air, coating my shirt with expert aim.

I glare down at the baby. “Seriously, man?”

He just smiles around the hand he’s chewing on.

Fucking Google didn’t mention this.

• • •

Once I get Ronan settled in his swing, I find Rosaleen in the living room. We walk to the kitchen to check out our supplies, but she stops just inside the kitchen door. Her face goes blank and frighteningly ashen.

“You okay, Rosaleen?”

She opens her mouth to answer—but what comes out is a burst of chunky yellow vomit, like lumpy pancake mix gone sour.

Man down.

She coughs and stares, horrified, at the disaster on the floor, splattered on her shoes and on her sparkly T-shirt. Then she starts to cry. “I’m sorry, Jake.”

Something in my chest swells at her tears, making everything feel too tight. I kneel down beside her, my hand rubbing circles on her back. “It’s okay. Rosaleen—it’s just puke. It’s not a big deal.”

The dog scurries in like Mighty Mouse coming to save the day. Then he starts to chow down on Rosaleen’s vomit.

Robustly.

I gag in the back of my throat but manage to hold it together. “See?” I tell her, trying to sound cheery. “You did me a favor—now I won’t have to feed the dog.”

• • •

Rosaleen changes into pajamas and climbs into bed next to her sleeping aunt. I do a second check of the wounded and take advantage of the momentary quiet to call my reservists.

“They all have it?” Stanton asks with shock—and a lilt of humor.

“They all have it,” I declare grumpily. I rub my eyes. “I’m not ashamed to say I’m out of my league here.”

“Do they have fevers, too, or just the upchucks?”

“How do I tell if they have fevers?”

“Do they feel hot?”

I think about it for a second helplessly. “They don’t feel cold.”

“All right. Call the grocery store—they’ll deliver. Tell them you need an ear thermometer—the directions will be in the box. You also need Tylenol, saltine crackers, ginger ale, chicken broth, and Pedialyte.”

I furiously write down everything he’s saying, like it’s gospel. “What’s Pedialyte?”

“It’s like Gatorade for babies. Keep an eye on the infant. If he starts puking, don’t mess around—call the pediatrician. The number is probably on the fridge. Babies can get dehydrated really fast. Same goes for the two-year-old—watch her. If she can’t hold down a tablespoon of the Pedialyte an hour, you may have to take her in.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Just keep them comfortable. Little sips when they can drink. Crackers and broth when their stomachs settle. Call us if you need backup.”

I sigh. “All right, thanks, man.”

• • •

By the next morning, I’m waist-deep in laundry. Sheets, soiled pajamas, cloths for foreheads. I know my way around a washing machine—my mother made sure of it. And since I like things organized and clean, I know how to load a dishwasher and fold a towel, too.