"And have them call me, or Larry or Nick since we're immune to it and can at least try to make the person comfortable." Fran heard her voice break at the end so she knew he probably did, too. It was understandable. She'd just been in her bedroom, just been that close to where her father had died after her futile attempts to alter or stop the flu from killing him.

That close to where she'd stitched him into his shroud before carrying him down to bury him in his garden.