Untold hours later, I wake to a slight knock on the door. I’m curled on the washroom floor, in town hall, under one of the Thalia Island fleece blankets. No idea how that came to be.
“Lara? Can I come in?”
I try to lift my head. The smell in here … “Oh my god, please stay out. I’ve destroyed this bathroom. We’re going to have to burn the whole place down.”
When the door opens, it’s Catrina, Tommy’s wife, wearing a surgical mask over her face. We’re friendly enough, given we’re on council together and have shared meals and after-meeting chats, but not so familiar that I’m not mortified for her to see me like this. Regardless, she looks like a backlit angel descending from on high. “You OK in here?”
“I think I’m dying.”
She kneels next to me, her cool fingers against my blazing forehead
