January 14, 1939

There was no school today, which meant that I had to spend the day with my mom. I guess most moms give hugs to their sons when they cry and say something that would be enough to stop those tears from falling or give them space when it comes to making them a happier person. She treated Adobe's death like it was anyone else, which was a good thing. My mom does not like to dwell on things that don't need second thoughts, so when I came into the kitchen that morning, I was confused because her face was as bright as her wedding ring.

"Pancakes, sausages, and scrambled eggs. They're going to get cold soon so you better hurry up and eat them." She shoved the plate into my hands, pouring syrup on top of everything. Some f the syrup spilled off the sides of the plate onto the floor. She stared at it. 

"We usually eat oatmeal and cereal on Saturdays, is there something going on?" She played with her hair, fixing it with the reflection of her plate before mounting it with food. She had not been this way since she won the lottery. Ten dollars and a bottle of rum.

"A special someone invited me out last night, but you were too busy sleeping to even notice." I stuffed a forkful of breakfast into my mouth. She dismissed my thoughts almost automatically. "You don't have to worry about him right now."

"Mom, stop. You're being all gross and stuff. I can't even eat a decent meal." My sigh was exaggerated for special effects. "Women around here." She popped the back of my head with the back of her hand, smiling cheekily.

"Watch your mouth. Anyway, my guy friend is coming over. I need you to clear out your father's boxes in the back. You can take them to your room if you like. Please stack them nice and neatly." After I finished breakfast, I walked to the living room where a couple of boxes were stacked. They were big and small and clean and dusty. There was one box in particular that I kept my eye on. There was no mailing address and it was sealed shut with brown tape. The corner of the box had red and gold designs.

"Mom, can I open this."

She nodded. I grab a knife from nearby, tearing through the tape.  

There were multiple papers compiled on top of each other. Some of them had red bands around them, while others were left folded so many times that the font was not recognizable once the paper was unfolded. At a glimpse, you could tell these were old documents. Colton Sutton. The name continuously appeared as I flipped through the pages. I recognized the name.

After a while, the floor was cluttered: a bundle of paper, a leather notebook, and a framed photograph of a twenty-five-year-old man. The intials C.S. were written at the bottom of the photograph.

"Mom, what are these? It's a bunch of stuff about the virus in this notebook. What did Dad have to do with the Virus?"

"Sweetheart, do not pay attention to those. Ever since the first victim had died, he had been all over the Virus. There is nothing but numbers and letters in that notebook that you would not understand. Move the boxes, please," she said grabbing a wet rag. I slowly dragged all the boxes to my room, but I sat the special box on my bed.

I open the window, allowing the cold breeze to fill my room. I grab the ice hanging on the window sill. The ice melts just a little under my hand, enough for my fingers and palm to be wet. Cold, wet, slippery.

I look through the notebook once more. The first log of the paper read:

[Colton Sutton was 25. He died on the 6th of December. Twenty-nine weeks after he died, the virus had officially spread. But he was not discovered until the June 10th. (25-6-29-10).]

The combination of numbers stood out. It was circled with a red pen and a bunch of symbols were scribbled on the side. 

(25/6)=(29-10)

25+(6-29)=10

(25-6)=(29+10)

(25*6)+29-10

None of it made sense to me. 

Suddenly, my mom popped her head into my room. "Nickolas, can you run to Aunt Judy's this week? She has a pair of boots and a coat for you."

"Yes, mom." I calmly closed the book, putting it back into the box. If my dad couldn't figure it out, neither can I.