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When the virus hit, people flocked to the shops, clearing entire shelves of face masks, hand sanitizer, and toilet paper with the sweep of an arm. Unrest broke out like a fever in the check-out lines. Shoppers shouted spittle into each other’s faces over sanitary wipes, grappling one another with the sweaty hands they would later use to unpack supplies and comfort their families. They might have stopped to remember that contagion is caught from someone else--the parent they pushed into the magazine rack today, or the child without soap tomorrow, or the hospital worker running low on masks and disinfectant as they come in for one more shift despite the T.V. blaring frenzy in the breakroom. It took a few weeks for the fever of panic to break, longer still for the body of the world to adapt to this new disease, this new normal. We survived thanks to those who remembered that we are only as strong as the herd we run with, that panic kills faster than any cough, spreads further than any pathogen, and sets in deeper than any germ. The ones who saved us didn’t ask for anything in return, except perhaps that we remember to count to 20 when washing our hands or rushing to act, and that the next time a fever grips the world, we immunize ourselves with both caution and kindness.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
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