Read Chapter 13: — CHRISTMAS EVE

The days lost their names.

Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Saturday, Tuesday—everything became shifts, deliveries, case numbers and messages received at impossible hours.

Maya's neighbourhood team began checking isolated residents door to door. She learned how to speak gently through closed doors, how to identify when someone needed food rather than pride, and how quickly loneliness could become dangerous.

Linda downstairs received a video call from her husband and son. Both were ill but stable.

She wore makeup for the call.

"So they don't see me falling apart," she told Maya.

Maya understood.

Ethan drove an elderly consultant who had been cycling ninety minutes each way because the buses had stopped. He drove two nurses who were married to each other and had chosen opposite shifts so one parent could always be available by phone for their children staying with grandparents.

He drove a cleaner who apologised for "taking a seat meant for doctors".

"The hospital closes without cleaners," Ethan told her.

Arthur would have approved.

At home, Maya and Ethan saw each other less than when both had ordinary jobs, yet their marriage felt strangely concentrated. Notes appeared on the table.

Soup in fridge. Heat properly.

Your mum called. Ring her.

I love you. Also buy onions if civilization still has onions.

One night Ethan came home to find Maya asleep on the sofa in her coat, still holding a clipboard.

He covered her with a blanket and sat on the floor beside her.

For ten minutes he did nothing.

That felt luxurious.