“Beech five eight Echo cleared for takeoff, runway two-seven.” The lone flight attendant secured the cabin door in response to the tower’s response just as the pilot’s right hand pushed the throttle forward. The chartered executive jet rolled down the tarmac and climbed effortlessly at nearly 4,000 feet per minute. The captain began a shallow, sweeping turn to the right, coming around all the way to a southeasterly heading of 139 degrees.

John reached across the aisle for Rose’s left hand, which was gripping her armrest. Her head rested on a pillow and her face was without expression as she stared out her window. John thought she might be a little nervous. It was understandable. Rose had never cared much for flying and the only thing she hated more than John being called away on business was if she, too, had to fly away. But they had agreed it was time for a nice vacation on their own away from the girls. Just the two of them for a week on a secluded Bahamian island.

When John told Rose that he had chartered the private jet from Athens, non-stop to San Salvador at a rate of $2,800 per hour, she thought the price was absurd until John explained that they only had to pay for the actual flight time. He figured the cost each way would be about $6,000, a steep price to be sure, but something John felt that they had earned with the success of WallCloud. Besides, he didn’t want to have to drive Rose to Atlanta, go through all the airport hassle before boarding a huge commercial jet to Nassau, only to have to change planes and find a puddle jumper to get them to the tiny island of San Salvador. Still, he already regretted booking the flight so early in the morning. They had stayed at the 50-Forks dinner the night before far longer than they had intended and drank far more than they should. John had chartered the plane to take off at 8:00 a.m. so that they could have the afternoon on the beach after navigating to the beach house they had rented for the week.

As Rose responded by squeezing John’s hand lightly, he reclined his plush, leather seat and fell fast asleep. Rose kept her head still, resting on a pillow as she looked out the window, staring at nothing. She concentrated on how she felt, knowing that something wasn’t right, but unable to put her finger on what it was. Pulling her hand away from John’s, she touched her forehead. Slightly warm, but only a mild fever if anything at all. Her stomach was sore, she thought, but then again maybe there wasn’t any abdominal pain. Discomfort was a better description than pain, she thought. Am I getting sick, or is it something else? She concentrated on the question she asked herself as the plane leveled at 35,000 feet. Could it simply be that I miss the girls? She reflected on the many wonderful excursions she had taken with John before the girls were born. Cruises, Vegas, New Orleans, and beaches. She and John had loved every minute of it, of their time alone together. Now, she was a mother. Something had changed, she seemed to now fully realize for the first time, as she lost herself in the endless blue sky. She had no longings for exotic travel, no desire to drink daiquiris on a mega cruise ship. No, she was a mother now and she wanted only to be with her girls and to be with them all the time. Just the girls and John together, anywhere.

Is that it? Is that making me feel uneasy? The general malaise that comes from being homesick, away from who and what you love? Or is it the motion of the plane, the unnatural feeling of being in a tin can, moving on a seat at 450 miles per hour almost seven miles up in the air?

Something wasn’t right. Rose knew it, but also knew she couldn’t explain it. Just a mother’s intuition, she told herself, as she tugged a blanket under her chin and tried to sleep.

***

Kevin Colbert returned weakly to bed in his Sutton, Massachusetts home with two glasses of orange juice and the Sunday Boston Globe. His wife, Monica, lay in the bed semi-awake, moaning, with the covers pulled tight. Kevin laid the newspaper on a chair, hoping he would feel well enough later to read it.

“Can you get me some more Motrin?” Monica groaned. Kevin sat the orange juice on the nightstand beside her and leaned over to feel her head. He wiped away the beads of sweat from her burning head and visualized a body emerging from a steam room. He stroked her head. “It’s too early,” he said. “We just took some three hours ago at 5:45 a.m.”

As he stood back up, Kevin felt every part of his body ache. He trudged to the master bathroom and soaked a washcloth in cool water, wringing it out lightly as he looked up at the mirror. The man returning the gaze was blurred, disheveled, and in no way resembled the suave gentleman who had been on the CNN supper club segment the month before, or the debonair gentleman who dined with some of society’s elite the night before at an underground supper club in an exclusive home in Dover.

Thank God we didn’t get this flu yesterday, he thought to himself. We would have never been able to make that dinner. Kevin shuffled back to the bedroom and placed the cloth across Monica’s forehead, having determined that there was really nothing else he could do. Of the two of them, Monica was the first to feel the symptoms come on, having awoken at 5:30 complaining of all-around body aches and pains. Kevin tended to her by giving her some juice and Motrin. He then used his computer to research the symptoms that Monica complained about––aches, pain, fever, and slight breathing difficulty––and found them to match the flu-like symptoms on the CDC’s website. The recommendation was to stay home, drink fluids, get rest, and don’t visit the emergency room unless you were in a high-risk category. Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen for fever if necessary, and have a family member look after you if possible.

That wasn’t possible. As a precaution, John had sent a text to his only daughter, Kelly, just to let her know how they were doing. Kelly lived about an hour away, in Watertown, and had gone with her husband to Vermont for the Columbus Day weekend. She wouldn’t return until late that night or the following morning...Kevin wasn’t sure. He had not wanted to call her early on a Sunday morning so he simply texted her, “hope you guys are having fun! mom and I feel down today with flu so we’re in bed. Turned phone off so we can rest. luv dad.”

Had they lived in a more populated area, Kevin might have gone to a health clinic despite the CDC’s recommendations. But they moved to their quiet and wooded home on Town Farm Road in Sutton for a reason. It was out in the boondocks, or at least as far out as you can be and still be close to Providence and Boston, and reasonably close to the Cape and the Berkshires. The only downside was that there was no medical clinic in Sutton and certainly no doctor’s office open on a Sunday morning. The closest choices would have been emergency rooms at Milford Regional or in Worcester. There was no reason to make a big deal out of this, Kevin reasoned, so he turned off the computer and went back to bed.

Now, he had awoken with the same symptoms, and Monica had not improved. He crawled into bed to get his own rest. Monica’s raspy breathing sounded like air was being sucked through a straw that was punctured with pinholes. Her lungs were trying to inflate, but it seemed like all the air wasn’t getting in. Kevin went to sleep worried about her and hoping that he would fare better.

***

The taxi stopped in front of the Athens Regional Medical Center. “$6.50,” the driver said. Megan Wilcox fumbled through her purse and squinted at the bill, trying to determine if it was a ten or a twenty. She shook her head in frustration at her blurred vision, which only succeeded at making her head pound even more. She tossed the bill in the driver’s direction and grabbed the door handle.