AN: Gosh, thanks for hanging in there so long while I was gallivanting around all summer, taking a mini break from writing, working long days and weeks, etc. I won't delay you much longer except to say, A) many many thanks to happymelt for beta reading and midsouthmama and faireyfan for prereading even during their own busy days and weeks . . . and, B) see another note at the end! :)

Chapter 10: Surface Tension

The heavy door separating us from the quarantine unit disarms with a dull thud. It's sort of anticlimactic. The low hum of the airlock venting system falls silent, as expected. I swear I can hear Edward grinding his teeth next to me. I reach a hand out to push the door, but he grasps my wrist to stop me.

I glance up to see him shaking his head, appalled at me. I'm not wearing FauxPrints, and even if I were, the cardinal rule when dealing with biohazards—for agents or any random person with common sense—is Don't touch anything.

Edward, still clutching my wrist, waves my hand in front of a motion sensor. The door swings open in front of us automatically.

Inside the airlock, the advisory signage matches what Mrs. Cope has warned of: a dangerous contagion, infectious through fluid exchange but not airborne. Nevertheless, Edward digs a BioSensor from his bag and clips it to my sweatshirt. He hands me a pair of disposable gloves and snaps some onto his own hands. I'm about to wave my arm to activate the second automatic door when he tugs me back again. His fingers twist anxiously around my wrist. Latex on latex.

"Wait." He grimaces. "If something happens, I . . . I want you to know—"

I clap my gloved palm over his mouth. "Oh, uh-uh. Don't you dare." Now it's my turn to be appalled. We're not superstitious about much, but this sort of talk is taboo in a hot zone.

I can see how nervous he is, though. This afternoon, we could have claimed we were simply humoring a rogue ex-agent in order to keep tabs on her. But in this moment—and from now on—we are actively striking out on our own. We're the rogue agents now. Not only that, we supposedly have a biohazard to deal with.

I pull him by his hoodie until he's an inch away from me, close enough that I can whisper under my breath. I've already activated the SatCom OverRyde, but there's always the possibility of hard-wired monitoring in an institutional setting like this. "Hey. Listen to me. If this goes south and we need a rescue, we say we were just following a clue our target let slip." I parrot back to him the line Aro fed us in our assignment brief. "She wasn't all there, and it made her dangerous. Blabbing left and right to everybody and their brother. We need to make sure she didn't leave any sort of trail that would expose our organization, all right?"

I don't so much see as feel him nod his head. A moment later, we're in.

The ward is small and dimly lit. Only one patient room is occupied, a ribbon of light peeking out from the bottom of the door's edge.

Before we can investigate, Edward marches off in search of any personnel who might need to be diverted. I pull my Vampire Tap device out, thinking I'll download the electronic medical record—until I notice there is no electronic medical record. A paper chart is all there is. I pull it from the rack on the wall and flip through it.

A John Doe, estimated to be in his mid-fifties. Unconscious on arrival.

Edward will pick up more from the file than I will, but for the time being I can see doctors have noted a very unusual constellation of symptoms, which was enough to trigger the quarantine and special treatment. No volatile contagions. And nothing in here indicates the hospital is aware of the so-called epidemic threat Shelly wrote of.

I hear Edward's sneakers as he approaches. He's making quite a bit more noise that he was a moment ago. "You scanned for ears and eyes, I take it?"

"Tons of both, but all wired to a closed circuit, in strict accordance with HIPPA standards." He holds up a square metal thing—a security dongle. "And all useless without this."

I begin to breathe easier. At least we can talk freely. Where private secure networks like this one are in place, Aro simply taps them. He doesn't add separate Sundial surveillance, saying it would be redundant. He has great faith in his own infallibility.

"Did you feed in some decoy footage?"

"Of course. Looped in yesterday's backup."

This better go smoothly, I think. If it comes to light that we tampered with a feed Aro is tapping, we'll have some explaining to do.

"What's the personnel situation?"

"One nurse. She's enjoying a short nap, courtesy of yours truly."

"Everyone says you have the golden touch."

"You were asking around, were you?"

"Basic recon, Big. Had to be sure my new partner wasn't a liability."

"Well, good. I've worked hard for that reputation. Sam's the lover, Jake's the fighter. I make people nod off instantly."

"No doubt." I'm surprised by how easy it is to fall back into our standard banter. It's comfortable. I can feel my blood pressure begin to relax. I glance at Edward with a quirked brow. "Is Sam really the lover?"

He takes the patient chart from my hands and begins to flip through it. "No. I'm the lover, obviously. But don't tell the others. It's my secret weapon."

"Naturally."

"Speaking of recon . . . what do you see?"

I shrug. "An overly cautious hospital."

He scans it and nods. A flicker of confusion passes over his face, though. "It certainly isn't the bubonic plague. Why would she risk everything to lead us to a dead end?"

He turns his attention back to the file, and I see him pause and rescan a page, eyes narrowed. "Interesting. This might be something." He pulls the page from the record, waves it under a nearby GermZapz light for good measure, and folds it into a small square before replacing the chart in its plastic rack.

He says, "Excuse me," and then tugs at the collar of my shirt so he can reach in and slip the page into my bra, chuckling when my face flames.

He looks me over to confirm the evidence is concealed, and then his own face tinges pink.

I call him an idiot, but I'm laughing. I'm excited that he might have found something important enough to keep secret.

"Let's do this."

Edward pushes the door open with his shoulder, and we approach the patient bed where a lumpy form lies covered in sheets, his face obscured by an oxygen mask, tubes crisscrossing his body. Edward reads the monitors and inspects the various IV meds. We both stare at his chest rising and falling.

"Um . . .wait a second." Edward pulls the mask away from the man's face and thumbs his eyelid to reveal a face that looks eerily familiar. Edward turns to me, disbelieving. "Are you seeing this?"

"Holy shit. Our mark from Gas Works Park. The bee sting."

"Yeah. Only it can't be. We killed him. I tested the doses myself. I watched him go down."

"It doesn't make sense. Maybe it's his twin?"

Edward shakes his head. He nudges the edge of the man's gown, revealing a neck tattoo. I know he's mentally revisiting the assignment brief. "This is him."

Well, damn. We've really stepped in something now. If Aro knows about this, which I'm sure is the case, it's a serious protocol breach. Agents are supposed to be fully debriefed if a job gets botched. Is that what this is—a failed hit? Is he being kept alive as some sort of witness who would identify me from that day? What does this comatose man have to do with Mrs. Cope's suicide and her claims about an epidemic? And how much of this do Edward and I need to sort out before our school day begins in another ten hours?

I look at him. "Not a dead end after all. No pun intended."

He clenches his jaw. This is getting more and more complicated—and more than likely, Aro's directly involved.

"I'll go swap the feed back in and wake up the nurse."

"Wait—can we piggyback on Aro's tap or something? Get our own eyes and ears in here?"

He shakes his head. "Too risky. But that gives me an idea." For the first time since yesterday at the bank, I see a glimmer of excitement pass through his eyes. That's all it takes for my own exhaustion to give way to a tiny seed of hope.

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In English class the next morning, I can't stop yawning. After giving Aro a perfunctory debrief, Edward and I stayed up most of the night, stealthily chatting on our secret laptops, exploring this scenario and that, agreeing on an official story to stick to. And then, at some point, the topic turned to possible options for post-prom outings, then dream vacations, then movie snacks that are acceptable (popcorn, hot pretzels, Junior Mints) and unacceptable (Jujubes, hot dogs, anything with a non-popcorn aroma).

I'm mid-yawn when Alice catches my eye from across the room and shakes her head at me, smirking. When it's time to change classes, she shows me a picture Rose texted her of Edward in Trig class with his mouth agape, dark circles under his eyes. It makes me grin a little. I just blink my eyes at her, all innocence, and ask her how Jasper's doing. This never fails when I need to change the subject.

"Oh! Wait. Look." She scrolls through more images on her phone, giggling. "Oops, I can't show you that. Maybe this one."

The shot she shows me is a portrait of her drawn in ink on a diner napkin. It's actually very sweet. "Hmm." I need to compose myself—this has made me teary. I really am overtired. "Did he draw this from memory?"

"Well, I may have texted him a photo or two . . . dozen. He comes home this weekend for three weeks."

"Do you ever imagine being with him forever?" The words are out of my mouth before I even know I'm thinking them.

"Whaaat?" She shrugs. "We're having fun." She squints her charcoal cat-eyes at me. "Don't tell me Edward is one of those—a forever-promiser? Because, I mean, really. It's the 21st century."

"No. It's not like that. I guess I've just been thinking . . . I don't know what. Like—forever is not that long."

She slows to a stop and swings me around to face her. "Aw. Is this about your buddy from the nursing home? Because that was a shock, and you two were close." She pulls me into a hug, and over her shoulder I can see Edward approaching, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. "You know, you could probably swing a couple of days off school. Take some time. What would you really miss? You already know how to swim."

"Yeah, but he doesn't."

"Ah. I see." She lets go and turns to see Edward hovering near the locker rooms, an uncertain expression on his face.

"Don't let me interrupt," he says.

"She was just telling me how nice it is to be needed. And I was just about to tell her that her dreamy boyfriend isn't the only one who needs her. And appreciates her."

"Very true, Alice," he says, looking at me the whole time.

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When we meet up again at the pool's edge, he doesn't leer—or pretend to leer—at me in my bathing suit. He just sits down beside me and lines his knees up with mine.

Coach Clapp shouts instructions for each pair of partners. Before the swimmers begin to assist the non-swimmers, there will be a CPR review, using a plastic dummy head.

I raise my hand.

"Yes, Swan? What is it, you want a same-gender partner?"

"Um, no. We're both Red Cross certified already. Can we skip it?"

"Anyone else, Red Cross? You all . . . practice floating and float-assists. Rest of you, gather around."

The echo of multiple conversations and splashing water inside these tile walls creates a welcome din. I stand in the waist-deep shallow end and put my hand on Edward's lower back as he topples backward from the edge into a floating position.

He tentatively spreads his arms wide, but he leaves his ankles perched on the ledge.

Voices reach us from the CPR lesson, the same phrases over and over. Can you speak? You—go and get help. You—call 911.

He looks at me from the corner of his eye, reluctant to turn his head from its dead-center position. His hair fans out like a watery crown. "Were you really telling Alice that I need you?"

"Asks a person who can't even float on his own."

He smirks. "I'm not denying it. Just surprised you talked to her about it. And that you said it was nice."

"Try to relax. And stop cheating—you're actually making it harder on your abs, with your feet on the ledge. Make your body into a straight line."

"Sorry, I stopped listening after you said harder."

"Shut up. Charm isn't getting you out of this."

"That counts as charm? I'm better than I thought."

I try scowling to keep from laughing.

"Okay, but . . . what if I . . ." He allows his feet to drift away from the wall and simultaneously reaches for me with his nearest arm. It looks involuntary.

"What if you what? If you drown, I'll totally resuscitate you."

He laughs. "Don't make fun of me."

The chanting starts again. Can you speak? You—go and get help. You—call 911.

"I just find it fascinating that there's something I'm better at than you."

"Still making fun."

"You're doing really good. You're floating. I could let go."

"Don't."

So I don't. I make sure he can feel my hand supporting his back.

"Shouldn't you be distracting me with all sorts of useless information about how floating is a function of surface tension and my body mass index?"

"Would that help? Because, honestly, your BMI is disadvantageous to floating. Too much muscle mass, not enough fat."

"Ah. There we go. I think you just insulted me by telling me I have too many muscles. I'm kind of flattered. And confused."

"But are you distracted?"

"Sure. Well done." He still has a pretty firm grip on my waist, though.

"Everybody needs an Achilles' heel. Yours is your floating prowess."

"Right."

"Now, if you had boobs, floating would be a breeze. You don't want boobs, do you?"

"What, on myself? No. Wait—maybe yes. Could I have them for just one day? Because I could learn a lot, being alone with a pair of boobs all day."

"Jesus Christ. I should have known."

"Is it time to flip over to my front? I'm going to have a situation here."

"We're doing fronts tomorrow. Breathe deeply. Your lungs are like a flotation device. More important than boobs. Or BMI. Feel that?"

"Yeah." His chest expands, slow and steady, and I can see the pulse in his carotid artery start to calm. "I could hang out like this all day."

I want to tell him that's why floating is taught as a safety skill, but I don't think that's what he means. "Me, too."

The CPR kids are really getting this mantra drilled into them. Can you speak? You—go and get help. You—call 911. It's strange to think of my friends being in danger, needing to know CPR. That might be my world, but it isn't theirs. I look at Edward's face, and I can see him listening, too. This is what's been making him nervous—not the floating.

"Just ignore them."

I wipe a splatter of water off of his cheekbone.

"How did you get to be so good at this?"

"What, float assists? Charlie, I guess."

Edward's eyes suddenly brim with tears, and he arches his head back to let water wash over his face. When he emerges again, blinking, he grins like nothing happened and silently mouths in unison with our classmates: Can you speak? You—go and get help. You—call 911.

+x+x+x+x+x+

I get called out of French class to see Dr. Berty, who gives me a sealed envelope from Evergreen Manor. He offers his condolences about Mrs. Cope and mentions that the nurse's office can recommend grief counselors if I want one. "The home really values your volunteer work, so when you're ready to go back—really ready—do think about it."

As I'm walking out, he calls out to me. "Oh, and Bella." He makes eye contact with me, and then looks pointedly at the envelope. In a quiet voice he says, "Bring Edward. No one else."

I shove the envelope into my bag. Bring Edward? Where?

I'm about to rejoin my class, but instead I take the stairs to a little-used girls' bathroom. It's totally deserted, as usual. I pinch my left lobe. "Make an excuse. Third floor, northeast corner."

I hear him clear his throat in confirmation. A few minutes later he finds me in the roomy handicapped stall.

He looks around. "Again I ask, why is there a wheelchair-accessible stall on the third floor, with no elevators anywhere?"

"For teenagers to make out, I guess."

"Oh. Excellent planning, then." He sidles up close to me, taking me at my word. His warmth and the faint chlorine smell still on his skin wrap around me, and I take a deep breath and check myself. Serious business, Swan. Remember?

I lean away from him, wincing to indicate I actually have something else in mind. "Also, they install a mechanized stair lift when a person in a wheelchair visits or enrolls."

"You know everything."

"Until five minutes ago, I did." I wave the envelope in front of his eyes, along with a scrap of tissue paper where I've scribbled out what Dr. Berty said to me. After he reads it, I flush the paper, and together we unseal the envelope. It's the deed to Mrs. Cope's safe deposit box. Actually, more than that. Two deeds to two safe deposit boxes.

Edward and I stare at each other, disbelief hanging in the air. Dr. Berty, now? I don't know who cracks first, but after both of us start howling with laughter, it's no surprise when a hall monitor bursts in and marches us to the principal's office.

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AN part 2: Hey! Thanks for reading! If you're considering donating to Fandom for Colorado wildfires compilation, you'll find an outtake I wrote (Edward #1's POV, roundabout the hospital cafeteria scene from my story Always an Edward). The fires are out and it seems like ancient history, but the devastation remains and it's not limited to forests, either. Lots of families lost their homes. See "fandomcause (*) info" for more. The deadline to donate is September 24 and the comp comes out October 1. Okay that's my PSA. XOXO.

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