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“I just can’t believe this is happening,” I say, my voice breaking a little. “This is
like some sort of nightmare.”
“Yeah, it is,” Anton agrees, the exhaustion evident in his voice. “The timing
couldn’t be worse.”
The timing is beyond terrible; it’s catastrophic. I close my eyes for a moment,
taking in the sounds around me—the muffled chatter of people on their morning
commute, the distant laughter of a group of teenagers on the way to school, the
soft cooing of a baby.
Life is moving on, unfazed by my little disaster. I wish I could say the same for
myself. Because right now, I feel like I’m trapped in a motionless void of
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“Well… you need to rest, Anton,” I finally say, resigned. “Focus on getting better.
This… this is just one of those things. Bad luck, or fate, or whatever you want to
call it.”
“Yeah, bad luck doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Anton mutters.
“Alright,” I say, swallowing. “Get better, Anton. See you.”
As I hover my thumb over the red ‘end call’ button on my phone, a thought
suddenly strikes me. “Wait, Anton, how come I’m not sick? I ate the same food
everyone else did, right?”
“You didn’t eat the seafood dish, did you?” Anton’s voice has a trace of
realization in it.
“Seafood dish?” I think back to last night. “Oh right, the one with shellfish. No, I
didn’t. I’m allergic.”
Anton’s voice tenses. “That must be it, Abby. That has to be the dish that got us
sick. Someone should check on everyone who ate that.”
A wave of dread washes over me. “Do you think everyone else is sick?”
“Now, let us not panic yet,” Anton counters, coughing a little. “I’ll send a group
text. To check if anyone else is feeling ill.”
“You don’t have to do that, Anton. You’re sick.”
“It’s the least I can do, Abby, especially since I cannot be your sous chef. You’re
screwed, aren’t you?” Anton’s voice is filled with guilt.
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“Pretty much, yeah,” I admit, forcing a laugh. “But it’s not your fault. Get better,
okay?”
“Will do. Good luck finding someone.”
I finally press the ‘end call’ button and stand here for a moment, shaking. Then,
it finally comes out.
“Shit!” I yell, chucking my coffee and croissant into the nearest trash can with as
much force as my arm can muster. I ignore the puzzled looks from commuters
walking by as I huff angrily, gripping my hair. It feels as if the universe is playing
some sort of cruel joke on me, and I’m not amused.
I pace back and forth for a few moments, thinking about who might not be sick.
But then, my phone starts to buzz. Group texts start rolling in.
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