The next morning, Dany sits at the very back of the history classroom.
But Liz Greene is nowhere in sight.
Dany stopped off at home for a big box of disposable face masks, N95, and Liz is supposed to be here, drawing black beaks on each of them. Dany glances at the clock, and then to hell with it, the other students can draw their own damn plague masks.
“Draw a beak,” she mutters, tossing a mask down in front of one of her classmates. She goes table to table, throwing down masks on each.
By the time class starts, some of the kids have taken out Sharpies and pencil crayons and decorated the thin white face masks. A couple have drawn cartoonish versions of lips. One has etched in a few broken teeth. Eva has pencilled hers with sutures, set in a gruesome approximation of a smile.
B
