My persecutors—or now I might call them caretakers—still wear their protective suits. They are afraid of the infectious agent I carry. I recognize their precautions. I’ve used the same suits in certain field work. Outside the door to the lab is a negative pressure room, where they can remove their suits and place them directly in a biohazard disposal bin, then scrub down in a sink. There’s also a shower in case it’s needed.
But we have started to talk. I recognize them as my partners and coworkers in the hazy way I see everything that came before the commune. I’m looking through a curtain of light at a world of differentiated shadows.