Chapter 1 #9
“Well, the devil was in the details. The pieces of glass had been cut and carved to be so tight that you couldn’t see the individual shards.
You’d look at the mural, and see your distorted reflection, like you were in a funhouse hall of mirrors.
But the real art was in the places where the glass intentionally wasn’t flush.
You had to do a double take, but you could just make out the finest line of white mortar between certain pieces, and it formed a line drawing of an anatomically correct heart. ”
“Whoa,” I breathed.
“Yeah. Eloise called it Love Thyself. I went to her thesis defense, and she told the professors that the reflection was so blinding—-and the urge to see oneself was so intense—-that most people didn’t realize what was in the spaces between.
She said people go through their lives missing what’s right in front of them.
But that just because we don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
” Suddenly Evie blanches. “That day I saw her smashing mirrors, I told her she’d have seven years’ bad luck. ”
That would have been in 1998. I reach for Evie’s hand and squeeze, thinking about how I don’t want the people I love to keep hurting. “Maybe it’s good,” I say gently, “that she only had three.”
One night, after showering, I wrap myself in a flannel robe that used to be Jesse’s, check to make sure that my phone volume is turned up, and turn on the eleven o’clock news.
I sit on the edge of our bed to untangle my hair before braiding it back, but the footage on the screen makes the comb slip from my hand.
An American Airlines regional passenger jet had crashed into the Schuylkill River, just outside the Philadelphia International Airport.
It collided in midair with a Black Hawk military helicopter.
Behind the reporter, in the inky night, are the red beacons of emergency vehicles and the shadows of first responders.
The fire commissioner starts speaking into a microphone at an impromptu press conference.
“This evening at 9:42 an alert was sounded initiating a large regional response to an aircraft crash on approach to the airport,” he says.
“This response includes the airport’s rescue firefighting unit, the Philadelphia Fire Department, and the Philadelphia Police Department.
At 9:49, the first units arrived on the scene, found an aircraft in the water, and began rescue operations.
This incident has grown. There are about three hundred responders working; we have police and Coast Guard and fireboats from all throughout the region.
Conditions out there are extremely rough for the responders—-it’s cold and windy, and we are trying to keep them safe. ”
He steps back, and the video shifts to a reporter, her hair blowing across her face. “This is still a developing story,” she says. “All we know right now is that the plane is in pieces and is sitting in water about eight feet deep.”
The news anchor’s grim face fills the screen. “Any word of survivors?”
The reporter shakes her head. “No. But this is still being called a rescue operation, rather than a recovery.”
I feel a pang in my chest, empathy for my counterpart in the Philly Office of Emergency Management.
The bathroom door opens, and Jesse walks into the bedroom on a roll of steam. He’s wearing boxers and is scrubbing at his short buzz cut with a towel. “Remind me to fix that goddamn showerhead—-” His voice breaks off as he sees the television.
“Plane crash,” I tell him. “Philly airport. Passenger jet and a military helicopter.”
“Oh, Jesus,” he breathes. “Why does this feel like déjà vu?”
“Because almost the same exact thing happened a year ago in D.C.,” I say.
“Survivors?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“I should offer aid,” I murmur, and Jesse’s arm tightens around my waist.
“Babe,” he says, “you can’t save everyone.”
I turn, frustrated. “Does that mean I shouldn’t try?” I stand quickly, intending to turn off the television, but suddenly the floor tips underneath me and I’m in Jesse’s arms.
“What the fuck, Molly?” he asks, gruff in his fear.
I blink a few times. “I just stood up too fast,” I say.
His lips press together as he scans my face, and I watch him battle the urge to call me on my lie when I’m clearly upset.
“That could have been us,” I manage, spiraling. “A week ago, it was us.” What a privilege it is to fake--crash a plane.
“That’s why you do the drills, right?” Jesse says.
I nod, still staring at the television screen.
“They do drills in Philadelphia, too,” he says gently, and he gathers me into his arms.
Three days later, there are no confirmed survivors, and the Philly governor is blaming the federal government for the crash due to understaffing of air traffic controllers.
Friction between government agencies and the people who are on the front lines of first response and public health has become a live wire.
In other words, it’s the worst possible time for a long--scheduled visit from two Feds in the CDC, who are coming to evaluate our performance for a grant we’ve already been promised.
In 2025, a gag order was placed on the Department of Health and Human Services, the CDC, the NIH, and more, which cut public health off at the knees—-since we literally exist to inform the populace about current and coming threats to well--being.
At the CDC and NIH, career scientists were replaced by political cronies.
As a result, these days, what my department gets from the Feds is rarely what we want or need.
Healthcare has always been political in this country.
Black and brown residents have had to fight for access.
Gay men who were afraid of being outed eschewed the mpox vaccine.
The United States maternal mortality rate is three times higher than those of other high--income countries, and Black mothers are three times more likely to die in childbirth than white mothers.
I am the consummate diplomat and have become accustomed to playing along just to placate the hand that’s feeding us.
But it doesn’t mean I’m not salty.
Louella Griswald, who replaced the longtime physician who was the head of the CDC’s Division of State and Local Readiness, is indeed a doctor .
. . of musicology. She has been reviewing how we allocate our money for three hours.
Flanking Dr. Griswald are two of her lackeys; flanking me are Toby and Miguel.
Toby is there to answer the CDC’s pointed questions; Miguel is there to keep me on a short leash as we are nickel--and--dimed.
“It seems you haven’t been testing the notification protocol we asked states to implement,” Dr. Griswald says.
Toby and Miguel glance at me. No, we haven’t.
It was one of their requirements for grant money—-using a multi-department APB for every drill and incident. “We haven’t found it to be the best tool for our real--world experience,” I reply judiciously.
Griswald pushes her glasses up onto her head. “Be that as it may, I’m not asking for your opinion. Just for you to follow the protocol.”
Smoke is starting to come out of my ears, but Toby jumps in, redirecting the conversation. “I wanted to ask about page twenty-four,” he says.
I slip my phone from my pocket. Underneath the table, I launch the notification protocol that the CDC wants us to use.
Toby’s phone pings. So does Miguel’s. I can hear similar dings on computers outside the room, then the door to the Emergency Operations Center flies open and the rest of my team rushes in.
The second in command at the Rhode Island Department of Health—-who happened to be in the building meeting with someone else—-storms in, eyes wild.
My phone and Miguel’s ring at the same moment—-his flashing with the number for the head of EMS, and mine with my boss—-the director of RIDOH.
It is utter chaos as I punch the speaker to connect. “What’s happening?” the director asks.
“Nobody knows what is happening,” I reply calmly, locking my gaze with Dr. Griswald’s. “Because the CDC’s notification protocol is not crafted correctly.” I glance around the room. “You’re all good to go,” I tell them, and I mutter a quick apology for wasting the director’s time.
“What kind of stunt is this?” Griswald asks.
I put away my phone. “All you care about is how long it takes for people to get here, so I was proving to you that yes, people can get here very quickly. Yes, there is merit to an emergency notification system. But we need to make sure we’ve got the right people, at the right moment.
There are no protocols in emergency and disaster relief because every single event is different. ”
I turn to Toby. “Did we have a spontaneous emergency last night?”
“Yes,” he says. “A nursing home fire.”
“Did I deploy the CDC’s notification protocol?”
The tips of his ears burn pink. “You did not.”