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channel to the news. I run back to my cot before anyone can blame me.
    I watch as the media replays a hologram’s message for the public. It’s identical to the one I witnessed in Quincy, but the bottom of the screen says it’s located in Springfield, Massachusetts. The newscaster returns to the screen with a microphone in her hand.
    “As of the hour, scientists claim that no comet of this magnitude and trajectory has been detected anywhere in our vicinity. Scientists across the globe are rushing to verify the information. Governments warn everyone to stay away from the phenomena until further testing can be done to determine their origin and safety. They are asking people to remain calm and wait for more information.”
    One worker returns and stops short when she sees the television screen.
    “Who put the news on?” she asks.
    No one tells on me. She clicks it back to Aladdin and moves to the next bay, taking the remote with her.
    So they’re telling us the truth. Well, the truth as far as anyone knows it. As far as they can tell, there’s no comet. That’s good news. But then why are the holograms here?
    After Aladdin , the workers play Cinderella , and then start Mulan . I try to pay attention to the talking dragon and the battle scenes, but I can’t get past the musical numbers. After what must be more than five, agonizing hours, they reevaluate us with the same checklist of questions and tests. The little boy nearby has fallen asleep on his mother. I watch as they try to examine him. When he wakes, he screams like his brain is being probed with an electrode. My hands start to shake again, so I hold onto my thighs through the paper gown. There’s only so long I can live in an outfit that crinkles like a potato chip bag.
    Another HAZMAT worker approaches me for reevaluation.
    “How long is this going to take?” I ask for the umpteenth time.
    She answers with the same response as every other time I’ve asked. “Depends on the CDC findings.”
    “But I feel fine.”
    “So far. Radiation symptoms show up within the first six to twelve hours. Depending on the tests, doctors will make a call whether they want more tests at the twelfth hour.”
    “What?” I complain. “Six more hours?” I lie back on the cot. They will need to strap me down soon if they think I can stay here much longer.
    I focus back on Mulan, trying to ignore how strange and terrible my date night has gone, when exhaustion hits. I wake up to a woman handing me a black T-shirt, jean shorts, and flip flops. They aren’t the clothes that I arrived in, but they are clothes that I recognize from my wardrobe at home.
    “What’s going on?” I ask, groggy.
    “Everyone’s been cleared. All testing came out negative so far—on people and at the sites.”
    She hands me a cup of water. As I drink, I realize she’s the same woman from before without the HAZMAT suit. She watches me with the same cold blue eyes, but now I can see her cropped black hair. She is younger and prettier than I expected. Tormentors should be hideous.
    “So they aren’t afraid we’re contagious anymore?”
    “No,” she answers. “The government released a statement. Scientists have tested several vertex sites, and all of them are completely sterile and benign. Cell phones have worse radiation emanating from them. It took a while because the data kept scrambling. Some sort of incompatibility with our technology. Speaking of cell phones”—she returns my cell phone and purse—“I believe these are yours.”
    I hold on to my phone like she’s handing me a newborn. “So this was all for nothing?”
    “If that’s how you want to look at it. I’m just happy to go home like you.”
    “Where are my other clothes?” I ask.
    “They were sent for decontamination. If anything had been found, the CDC would’ve burned everything. You can pick them up at the front desk.”
    The attendant hands me discharge papers that explain the warning signs of exposure to