As I climb onto the van, I tell myself I can’t have another panic attack in front of Flora. I’m not sure why she got so mad at the guy on the plane, and I’m not sure I want to find out. I’m covered in a cold sweat, and I clench and unclench my fists, trying to make the tingling in my fingers go away. I try to calm my breathing, try to follow the advice that I looked up online, but suddenly I can’t remember any of it. I need to get home. This trip was a mistake, and home is safe and I need to be there. I can’t believe I thought I could handle a plane trip. I can’t believe the CDC is here. I can’t believe we’re going to quarantine. They’re saying it’s mono, but I bet it’s Ebola. I bet Flora was right. The words the CDC worker said don’t compute with the level of anxiety I’m feeling, with my numb hands, with the sweat covering my body.

I sit down, and Flora is still next to me, looking a little worried and maybe a little annoyed. Her mouth is moving, but I can’t hear any words coming out.

I look at my phone, which I didn’t even realize I was holding, and I start a text to Kelsey, but I have no clue what to say, and my hands are shaking and I still can’t feel my fingers, and then I feel guilty for even thinking about her and start a text to my mom, but I’m stumped about what to say to her.

The ride feels short, and we pull into a huge industrial yard and stop outside a warehouse that gives me the creeps. Flora grabs her things and looks at me. “You all right there?”

I take a shuddery breath. “I’ve been better.” It’s my attempt at humor, and Flora half smiles at me.

We’re ushered off the van to the outside of the warehouse, where CDC workers holding clipboards are taking names of all the passengers from the flight. Flora tugs me along to one of the workers, though I don’t even know if she realizes she’s holding my hand. The way she grabs it seems so automatic. The worker sizes us up. “You two together?”

Flora looks at me, looks at our clasped hands. “Yeah.”

“Names?”

Together. The word echoes in my head. It’s not a word I’ve ever been able to use to describe myself with anyone. Flora is holding my hand to make me feel better, to prevent any other panic attacks, and that’s why she said we’re together, but there is something weird in my stomach and I realize it’s guilt. I wonder what Kelsey would think if she saw me holding hands with Flora, my fingers wrapped in Flora’s soft fingers. I should probably just take my hand back, but suddenly it’s free, and Flora is once again looking at me expectantly, and I realize she’s been talking to me.

“Dude. What’s your last name?”

“Huh?”

“You’re Oliver … ?”

Flora and the worker are peering at me.

“Oh, right. Russell.”

“Okay, Oliver Russell and Flora Thornton. You’re both minors, correct?”

I stare at the worker blankly. “Like, coal?”

“Um, no, like you’re both under eighteen,” the worker says slowly.

“Yes, we’re minors,” Flora says impatiently.

“Okay. Well, once you’re all settled inside, just be sure to tell one of the interns or nurses that you’re minors and you can call your parents together. We’ll need their consent.” She’s writing something on her clipboard.

“Yep, sure thing,” Flora says.

She and the worker both look at me again, and I say, “Right.”

“You’re all set. Hey, no kissing in there.” The worker laughs like she’s said something hilarious.

I feel that weird guilty feeling in my stomach again at the mention of kissing.

The inside of the warehouse is cozier than I was expecting. There are tidy rows of cots, and oddly enough a couple of TVs on the walls that are turned to one of the food channels. I don’t know what else to do, so I follow Flora as someone on TV cracks an egg into a mixing bowl. Flora plops her stuff down on a cot and takes out her phone again. She could be riding the subway for how at ease she looks. It baffles me.

There are CDC workers milling around, talking to passengers, and people are filling out papers, having their temperatures taken.

My pocket vibrates, and I jump. It takes me a few seconds to retrieve my phone, which I must have put back in my pocket at some point. It’s my mom calling. I look at the phone in my hand, watch it ring, ignore it. She calls back again, and again, and then finally leaves a voice mail. “Oliver! I hope to god that isn’t your flight on the news. Please call me immediately.”

She calls again while I’m still holding the phone. I answer, “Hi, M—”

“Why didn’t you answer my phone calls? Are you okay? Oh, Oliver, I’ve been worried sick.”

“Mom, it just happened. You can’t have been worrying that long.” I don’t know why I’m attempting humor.

She doesn’t even seem to hear me, though. “Oliver, I want you to come home right now. You don’t need to be in quarantine, you’re not sick. And I know you wouldn’t sit close to another sick passenger, right? I know you wouldn’t do that, right?” There is desperation in her voice.

“No, Mom, of course not,” I lie.

“Is there anyone I can talk to there? Someone who can speed this along?”

“Mom, it’s okay, I’ll be home tomorrow. It’s less than twenty-four hours of quarantine.”

My mom’s voice gets that fluttery edge to it like when she’s crying. I’ve heard that flutter a lot over these last few years, ever since my dad died. “I wish I could be there. Does it seem safe? How many adults are there?”

I look around the warehouse, at the other passengers, at the CDC workers. “I don’t know, a lot.” A man in a hazmat suit is talking to Flora and taking her vitals, including taking her temperature, and then another one walks over to me. He gestures at my phone.

“Mom, I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“What? Why?”

But the worker is shaking his head at me and gesturing at my phone again.

“Um, maybe I don’t need to go?”

“What is going on?” my mom asks.

The worker snatches the phone out of my hand. “Hi, Ms. Russell, I understand your son is a minor.”

I can’t hear what my mom says to him but I know it’s probably not very nice. He listens for a bit, then abruptly says, “For the safety of your son and anyone else who may come in contact with him, yourself included, do you give consent for him to spend the night in Miami?”

He listens more, then says, “Thank you, ma’am.” He hands the phone back to me.

“She agreed?” I say, shocked.

The CDC worker says, “Uh-huh.”

I want to ask him more, or maybe apologize if she was rude to him, but he’s wheeling a little cart over to me. He wraps a cuff around my arm to check my blood pressure, sticks a thing on my finger to check my pulse, and jams a thermometer in my mouth. My arm tightens in the cuff, and a second later the thermometer beeps. I think he says, “Good, normal,” and walks away.

The CDC worker with Flora is using her phone now, and I catch myself eavesdropping as he talks to someone who I assume must be Flora’s mom.

“Yes, ma’am, she’s safe and healthy and we’ll keep it that way.”

He’s quiet for a second, then chuckles. I wonder if Flora’s mom is funny. I wonder why my mom isn’t.

My phone buzzes yet again, and there’s a text from Kelsey: OMG, r u ok? Is that ur flight on the news???

Is she worried about me? The possibility makes my face feel warm, and I’m glad my temperature check is already over.

But seeing her name on my phone reminds me I need to be on my way home to the party. I need to be on my way home now.

Flora is fiddling with her phone. She says without looking up, “Everything is fine.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but I find myself starting to say, “No.” Flora just looks at me with her eyebrows raised.

“Are you always this high-strung?”

I’m taken aback, but I sputter, “Um, are you always this calm when we could possibly have Ebola?”

Flora throws her head back and laughs, and her laughter just makes me mad. “Oliver, it’s mono. We’re lucky we don’t have to worry about Ebola as much as people in other parts of the world do. Do you know how many people Ebola kills every year? Do you know how lucky we are?”

She looks at me seriously, waits for it to sink in, then says more lightly, “You’re not one of the high-risk people, anyway. Even if you have been making out with lots of ladies on your spring break, the worst it’ll do is make you a little sleepy and give you a bad cold like the guy on the plane. Would time away from school, away from … reality … be so bad?” She almost sounds wistful.

I don’t know what to say, so I blurt out, “How do you know I was on spring break?”

She rolls her eyes. Then she flops back on the cot and watches the cooking show. I pace around my cot, and when I look over at Flora again, she has her eyes closed. Something has shifted. Her patience for me seems to have ended as quickly as it started, and I wonder why I care, and I hate that I ever felt guilty about anything.

I watch her sleep for a while, envious at her ability to relax, to not freak out. My mom calls again, and she seems a bit calmer. She’s still got that fluttery edge to her voice, but it’s slowed down from hummingbird to pelican. She’s had her nightly glass of wine. I promise fifteen times I’ll be safe, that I’ll wash my hands every twenty minutes, that I’ll be home tomorrow.

When I hang up, I look through my texts, look back at the one from Kelsey. I realize that when she watched the news, she thought about my flight, which meant she had to have been thinking about me, right? It gives me a squishy feeling in my stomach. I settle into my cot and text back, Yeah! Kinda scary! In quarantine now.

She keeps texting me, and she sends me a picture of herself holding a sign saying GET WELL SOON! Which I’m touched by, but it also worries me a little.

“Get well soon” is what you say to people who are sick. And I’m not sick. There’s no way I can be sick.

I hope.