Sky sipped coffee and looked through the living room window while several of Logan’s interns helped load the second truck of the day. The first one had come by an hour ago and dropped a bunch of plastic bundles, which the interns had carried inside. Fertilizer, she’d reckoned, for whatever crops they were growing. The glass of the greenhouse was covered, though, so she couldn’t see what was going on inside the building where, as far as she could tell, Logan spent all of his time. His interns too, loading and unloading and carrying lab equipment.

It had been five days since she first arrived at Logan’s, and she’d yet to put a foot outside. Heck, she’d barely put a foot out of bed. Sleeping and sneezing had been the whole scope of her activities. Yesterday she’d gotten up and tried to run errands, but Logan’s helpful neighbor Carol had intercepted her on the porch and, pointing out it was very cold, insisted that Sky stay in. Still quite sick and in no shape to argue, Sky had caved in.

But today she felt fine, and it was a gorgeous morning: bright and clear, the snow glittering in the sun. The trucks coming and going were proof that the roads were open again. Time to hit the streets, or she was going to go stir-crazy. Find a bank to exchange her euros. Buy some real food.

And, most importantly, try to get a cell signal. The landline was still down, and she hadn’t dared to ask Logan if she could use his satellite cell for more than trying to contact her school in Paris, which had been a waste of time. No one was answering. The landline was down there too. Logan had told her cell reception was sketchy at best in town, the silver lining being that some spots had to be better than others, right? She was going to try every single corner of the damn place until she got connected, because if she had to go another hour without Instagram and Twitter, or touching base with her followers on YouTube, she was going to lose it. Repaying Logan’s kindness by running up an astronomical cell bill didn’t seem appropriate.

She dressed as warmly as she could, given that her designer clothes were purely for show, and headed for the door, more than ready to resume her morning routine. Obviously, buying her regular cup from Starbucks and enjoying it near the Brooklyn Bridge as she walked to her favorite patisserie for a macaroon was an impossibility, but she’d figure out how to adapt to her circumstances, at least until she could fix this mess and get out of Dodge.

To her utter surprise, Carol was dozing on the porch, wearing a hazmat suit and a mask over her mouth. What the heck?

Sky touched her on the shoulder. “Mrs. McGowan, are you okay?”

The lady woke up in a jerk. “Oh yes. I sat down for a moment to get some sun, and I fell asleep.”

Get some sun, covered from head to toe in a hazmat suit? “I see. I’m going to town to find the nearest supermarket. Any recommendations?”

“What do you need?” Carol hurried to ask. “I can bring it to you. You shouldn’t exert yourself. You never know when flu might turn into full-blown pneumonia. We don’t have specialists in town, just a family practice.”

“Don’t worry, I’m better now. No fever. You don’t have to bother.”

“It’s no bother,” Carol insisted, sounding like a female Darth Vader through the mask. “Go inside. Write me a list. I’ll take care of everything. We don’t want you to get sicker.”

“I’m fine.”

For some reason, Carol looked panicky now. Before she could answer, a lady Sky hadn’t seen before walked toward them, carrying two plastic bags, tightly knotted. “Good morning! These are for the Alchemist. Will you give them to him?”

Sky took the bags. “What’s this?” Yesterday evening, several people had dropped by with bags for Logan, which he’d accepted and taken to the greenhouse. She hadn’t thought much about it then. Maybe she should have.

The newcomer laughed. “This is an express delivery from Paulie. I recommend you don’t open them. Potent stuff.”

O-kay.

“You didn’t change after the drill?” the woman asked Carol. Then she turned back to Sky. “I’m Maggie, by the way. What are you guys doing outside?”

“She wants to go into town. Run errands. Supermarket,” Carol explained. “I told her there’s no need.”

The ladies threw worried looks at each other before Maggie spoke. “The general store is closed today. The owner had errands to run himself.”

“Any store will do, actually. And I need to stop in at the bank to exchange some currency,” Sky said, trying to ignore the alarm bells ringing in her head.

She took a step, but the two ladies blocked her. “There’s no bank in town. Not one that would exchange currency, anyway,” Carol said and walked forward, gently but firmly pushing Sky back into the house.

Being pushed by someone in a hazmat suit was worrisome.

Sky took one step back, then another and another. The two ladies sweetly smiled at her and bent over backward to explain why she’d be better off indoors until Sky was over the threshold. Then they closed the door on her.

Sky dropped the bags Maggie had given her, realization dawning. She was being held incommunicado in the middle of nowhere—no landline, no cell, no way to leave the house. Her car was nowhere to be seen. People were dropping off suspicious bags, and “interns” who didn’t speak a word of English spent all day growing crops in a greenhouse with the windows covered. Trucks came and went, loading and unloading. Fertilizer, her ass. She’d been kidnapped by a bunch of hillbillies running a drug ring in Minnesota.

And silly her, she’d been worried about racking up Logan’s satellite phone bill.

She had to get out of there. But the two ladies were still by the door. She could hear their muffled voices, though she couldn’t make out the words.

Sky ran upstairs to her bedroom, which was at the other end of the house. She opened the window. Jesus Christ, and people said cities were dangerous. Ha! She’d take East Harlem any day over wackos in the countryside.

She kicked off her stilettos. It was bad enough she had to jump from a second-story window; she wasn’t doing it in heels. Wait, what about her stuff? She gathered her belongings, shoved them into her bags, and—praying they wouldn’t burst on contact—threw them over the windowsill. The snow, thank God, muffled the sound and apparently cushioned the fall, because nothing exploded.

So far so good.

She had no clue how she was going to drag all that by herself, or how she was going to make it out of there without a car, but one problem at a time, thank you very much.

She grabbed her purse and, noticing a knife on a plate on the nightstand, grabbed it too. Just in case. Now she had to get herself to the ground. Maybe sliding along the water pipe was better than jumping? Jesus on toast, where were the fire escape ladders when she needed them? In cities, of course. She swung one leg over the windowsill.

Then she heard the door of her room opening.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Logan.

Damn. Busted.

* * *

Sky was hanging from the window, one leg in, the other out, purse in one hand, butter knife in the other, her dark eyes round, a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on her face.

“Stay back,” she cried, brandishing the butter knife at him. “Or I swear to you I’ll—”

“Pat me with a butter knife?” he finished her sentence with a smile. “Come down. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I recommend you let me go. I won’t be an agreeable kidnapee.”

“Who’s kidnapping you?”

“I tried to leave. The guards posted at the door wouldn’t let me.”

Guards? Ah. “Carol and Maggie aren’t dangerous. They’re just nuts.”

“Not dangerous?” she shrieked. “They’re restraining me against my will.”

He lifted his hands. “No, no, nothing like that, I promise.” There was no easy way to say this, so he took a deep breath and pushed on. They were all ending up in jail anyway. “They’ve quarantined you.”

She blinked. “Quarantined me?”

Logan assented with a grimace. “They’re doomsday preppers. The pandemic squad. You’re a potential patient zero.”

“Right. How stupid do you think I am? Oh God.” She went rigid suddenly, as if something had dawned on her. Dropping her purse, she brought her hand around to her back.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Checking that I still have two kidneys.”

Jesus Christ. “Of course you still have your kidneys.”

The commotion had caught the attention of Carol and Maggie and a couple of other sisters of doom, who appeared on the lawn. “Logan, she can’t jump,” Carol called out. “Rate of infection is secondary to containment. Any blood spilled would be a potential contaminant.”

Sure, like talking about spilling blood wasn’t going to make Sky freak out more.

“Ladies, explain to our guest: what’s the worst-case scenario? Taking into consideration the whole world, I mean.”

“Viruses mutate until they are immune to our vaccines. The world is just one flu away from extermination,” Carol answered. “You don’t want to carry that on your conscience, do you?”

“See?” Logan said. “Nuts. Not dangerous.”

Sky didn’t seem persuaded, much less ready to give up. “What about all those packages people have been dropping off and telling me not to open? All the trucks coming and going? Your interns in lab coats who barely say a word? Are you keeping them prisoner too? What do you do in that greenhouse of yours, Alchemist? You’re running a poppy farm. Or a meth lab. Or both. Just give me access to the internet for a second and I’ll figure out which.”

Logan threw his head back and laughed. “Nothing nearly as lucrative, believe me. If you come down from the window, we can go to the greenhouse and I’ll show you what I grow.” Explaining wouldn’t do it. She’d never believe him.

She looked at him, then down at the pandemic squad. “Tell them to leave. And hand me your cell.”

“Ladies, you heard her. You don’t want her falling from the window and splattering blood on the snow. You might get contaminants in the water table when it melts.”

Sky stared at him, horrified, so he winked at her.

The pandemic squadron tsked him. “That’s not exactly how viruses work, Alchemist,” Carol said, but retreated.

Slowly, so as not to spook her even more, Logan approached Sky and offered his cell. She entered the digits 9-1-1 but did not press the big green button. “Any suspicious movements and I hit Send. Are we clear?”

“Crystal. Now get off the window.” Before she did slip. Between the knife and the cell, her hands weren’t going to do shit for her if she lost her balance.

He moved to the door. “Come on. The greenhouse awaits.”

“No funny business,” she warned him, climbing down.

In spite of himself, he had to snort. Nothing but funny business, he was afraid.

As they descended the stairs, he said, “Next time you’re taken hostage, give some thought to your choice of weaponry. A butter knife?”

“True. Wait here.” She ran into the kitchen and came back with the biggest carving knife he had.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Put these boots on,” he said once they made it to the side door. She looked at the olive-green Wellington boots, a grimace on her face. “Unless you want to walk outside barefoot, in which case, be my guest.”

Grudgingly, mumbling something he couldn’t decipher, she got her feet into his spare boots–five sizes too big for her at the very least—and awkwardly followed him into the breezeway. The tunnel covered with heavy-duty plastic didn’t faze her, but the well-insulated door into the greenhouse did, because she stopped.

“Nothing fishy, I promise. Ready?”

He waited until she nodded, and then opened the door.

“Here we are,” he said, lifting his arms and turning around. “Behold my poppy farm.”

She walked in. Confused, she looked at strong lights illuminating rows of tables full of plastic bags. Mushrooms were sticking out of them at weird angles. “You’re growing mushrooms, Alchemist?”

He nodded. “Not magic mushrooms. Just the garden variety. And technically, I’m a chemist.”

The smell from the far end of the greenhouse must have made it to her, because she pinched her nose. “And those are…” She pointed at a pile of recent deliveries.

“Dirty diapers.” He reached into his pocket. “Put this cream above your upper lip, right under your nose. You’ll be able to breathe. See? Nothing shady, I swear,” he said, dabbing a bit of the cream on himself to reassure her.

Looking suspicious, she complied. Good, that cream was a life saver. “Why the heck is there a humongous pile of dirty diapers in your greenhouse? You some kind of weirdo hoarder?”

Fuck, she was funny. “A single disposable diaper takes five hundred years to decompose. A baby uses an average of six diapers a day for at least two years. Over four thousand diapers per kid. Do the math. We’re drowning in waste. Diapers contain a plant-based material, cellulose, that mushrooms can consume for nutrients as they grow. In three months, the diapers degrade up to 80 percent, leaving behind only a small amount of nonbiodegradable materials.”

Eyes widening, she stared at the pile of diapers, then at the tables. “You’re growing mushrooms on dirty diapers?”

“You see that machine over there? It’s an autoclave that incinerates biological residue.” At her expression of incomprehension, he clarified, “It sterilizes the diapers. They come out biologically clean.”

“You’re serious.”

“Would I come up with such a crazy story if it weren’t true? The greenhouse has two sections: one in darkness down there, and this one with lamps,” Logan explained. “We treat ground-up diapers with mushroom spores and keep them in the dark for the first month. Then we expose them to light. That door leads to the lab, where we do research into the nonbiodegradable materials.”

She headed to the lab and took a peek. It must have passed inspection, because she came back. “So the trucks?”

“We process diapers from all over the county. Other local companies collect the mushrooms and the superabsorbent gel that’s left over. The mushrooms are mostly used for animal feed and fertilizer. The gel waste is shipped to arid areas, to be used in water retention projects. All the interns I have are chemistry undergrads interested in research into nonbiodegradable materials. They sign up to work in my lab for university credit. They aren’t my prisoners. They’ve just arrived from their home countries. School hasn’t begun yet, so their dormitories are still closed. That’s why they’re staying here. As soon as the semester kicks in, they’ll move to campus and come here for several hours a week.”

“That explains a lot,” she mumbled as if to herself. “How did you come up with the idea to use mushrooms for decomposing diapers?”

“Actually, I didn’t. Mexican researchers did. The biggest diaper reclamation project is down there. I read about it and wanted to see if we could break things down more, maybe convert the byproducts. I also wanted to find out if we could implement the Mexican process on a small, sustainable basis in a rural setting. So I stayed in touch with them and tried to adapt their idea to local conditions.”

“Wait—have you been feeding me these mushrooms?”

“No, absolutely not. Though they are edible. I think some of the preppers have managed to get their hands on a few to preserve.”

“Preppers,” Sky repeated.

“Doomsday preppers.”

Sky looked around. Shook her head. “This is crazy,” she declared.

“Tell me about it. How about you put the knife down and we go back in the house now?”

* * *

“Carol brought you homemade chicken soup as an apology for spooking you.”

Sky accepted the bowl. “Should I worry she’s laced the broth with an experimental medicine?” Sniffing proved useless. She’d wiped Logan’s cream off her upper lip, but everything still smelled like roses to her.

Logan smiled and sat on the couch with her. “I think you’re safe. They’re drinking it themselves. Or should that be a red flag?”

Probably. She took a spoonful. Man, she was so tired of eating soup. “Has she gotten out of the hazmat suit? Because let me tell you, she freaked the living shit out of me when I found her dressed like that.”

He chuckled, nodding. “I bet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what? That you were being quarantined by the town’s pandemic squad, or that I collect dirty diapers for a living?”

“Both.”

“The pandemic squad is difficult to explain, and you had a fever. As for the rest”—he shrugged—“who wants to tell an attractive woman he’s in the poo business?”

“You’re in the business of saving the planet. Being environmentally conscious is very much in nowadays.”

“True, but the trendy stuff is all for show. Principles are only principles when they cost you. Most people aren’t ready to put their wallets where their mouths are. Besides, you don’t strike me as the environmentally conscious type, the way you wrinkle your nose at my hair and beard.”

“Fashion is my business. The failed hipster look you have going on is missing that certain meticulous put-together-ness.”

He laughed. “I didn’t know I had a look.”

Yes, he did. Not that he paid much attention. He seemed to throw on whatever clothes he had at hand. But she figured the end result was striking because the frame was gorgeous to begin with.

She took a sip of the soup, trying to get her mind out of the gutter. “I have another question. Why haven’t they quarantined you?”

“I haven’t sneezed yet, but give it time. I’m under watch and have strict instructions to keep away from public places unless it’s totally necessary.” He turned the full force of his beautiful eyes on her. “No one is detaining you here. They would let you leave town, but your car isn’t repaired yet, and the roads are a mess. I suggest you just sit it out for another day or two. If you must go for a walk, they can’t stop you, but God forbid someone else gets the flu. They’ll court-martial you and find some way to hold it against you for freaking ever, believe me.”

No shit. “I heard there’s a doctor in the town. Would it help if I got a clean bill of health from him?” She never went to the doctor, much less for flu, but this was force majeure.

“Honestly? I don’t know. It’s a fifty-fifty shot. Some of these people make their own antibiotics. They stitch up their own lacerations, splint their own broken bones.” At her stunned expression, he added, “Told you. They’re nuts.”

“What exactly are doomsday preppers? Is that a metaphor for—”

His snort interrupted her. “No, they mean it quite literally. They’re prepping for the end of the world as we know it. The pandemic squad, you’ve met. Others are prepping for an electromagnetic pulse from the sun, an earthquake, a tsunami, the collapse of the economic system, an oil crisis—you name it, they’re prepping for it.”

“I thought preppers… you know, crazy survivalists, lived in Alaska.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve come to learn they are everywhere. Minnesota is quite popular for preppers as a matter of fact. It’s a sparsely populated, open-carry state. Far enough away from Yellowstone in case it erupts, far enough away from the ocean in case of a tsunami. Not much fear of other natural disasters either—if you don’t mind the freezing cold, that is.”

Jesus, this was surreal. “How did you end up in a town like this?” He’d said he was a chemist working with a university. That meant a college degree, maybe several. Surely he understood the madness in all this.

“I came to be closer to my sister. Inexplicably, this place grows on you. The drills are fun.”

“Drills? What drills?”

He chuckled. “You don’t want to know. If you’re lucky, you’ll be safely in Paris before the next one.”

“Why do they call you the Alchemist?”

“To bug me, mostly. Although, believe it or not, in a town full of doomsday preppers, being able to create chemical compounds from basic materials and medicines from plants are highly sought-after skills. I’m hot shit around here. A rock star among preppers.”

Sky laughed. “So you’re in a town full of people preparing for the end of the world as we know it, and you’re decomposing diapers in order to save it?”

She’d meant it as a joke, but his expression was anything but amused. “I wanted to do something with my life aside from inventing pills to cure the illnesses we created with our previous pills.” Before she could ask about the bitterness behind those words, he changed the subject. “You said your business is fashion, but you’re a teacher?”

“I want fashion to be my business. As it is now, I’m—correction, I was just an assistant, working for the supervisor of the personal shoppers at a department store. I’m not really a teacher. I’m more of a… desperate, eternal part-time student.”

“What’s your major?”

Ha. Which semester? “Currently, I’m an education major, for the sake of expediency, but that’s subject to change without notice.”

The corners of his lips quirked up. “A flip-flopper.”

He’d nailed it. “I thought the study-abroad program could be my stepping-stone to Europe. Room, board, and a stipend in exchange for teaching English in the fashion capital of the world. Win-win, right? I enrolled full-time to qualify, quit my job, got a letter of recommendation from my boss, and—here I am. Not much chance to apprentice as a buyer for the Galeries Lafayette in these parts, huh?”

“You can’t contact your school and tell them there’s been a mistake?”

“I can, and you bet your ass I will, but I’m sure all the spots in Paris are taken by now. Milan too, which was my second choice.”

He smirked. “You do know we have a Milan in Minnesota too? Population 369.”

Sky laughed. “And I’m sure my sister would have signed me up for that one if I’d given her the chance.”

“Nothing good comes from sisters,” Logan commiserated. “They got both of us stuck with a bunch of crazy preppers. You got lucky, though. It could’ve been worse.”

“Really? How?” Because she had trouble envisioning a worse scenario.

“Your sister could have messed up the location and the internship. She could have sent you to intern with me, grinding diapers and collecting mushrooms.”

Oh, God. So true.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” he continued. “Mounting an armed resistance is a big step up from being half dead of the flu.”

“Sorry I pointed a knife at you.” The guy had tended to her for days, brought her food in bed, kept the pandemic squad at bay. And how had she repaid him?

He waved it off with a smile. “Don’t sweat it. Since I moved here almost two years ago, I’ve had plenty of lethal shit pointed in my direction. I think I’m more offended about the kidney accusation.”

She cringed. “Sorry about that too. I was totally freaked out. I watched a documentary last week about a poor man who woke up in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, lighter by a kidney. I remembered the days I spent in bed and the hazmat suits hovering over me and I… Sorry. Really.” The one time she’d channel surfed for anything other than fashion shows.

“I understand, don’t worry. For the record, though, if these people take the saw out, I don’t think they’ll stop at one kidney. With this bunch, you either wake up with all your organs or you don’t wake up at all.”

That was reassuring. Not.

At that moment there was a knock on the window.

“Excuse me,” Logan told her and went to open the side door. It was one of his interns, with a bunch of papers in hand.

Sky watched as Logan talked with the younger man. Well, “talking with” was an overstatement, because they didn’t seem to be making much communication headway.

“I need to get a frigging translator. UN certified. Pronto.” Logan sighed, sitting down again on the sofa.

“I thought international students were required to demonstrate English proficiency before an American university would accept them.”

“They are. It’s mostly a test of reading skills, though. These kids can read Shakespeare, but they are unable to say, ‘Hi, how are ya?’ to the locals.” He studied her, pensive. “Say, what are you going to do until your job starts?”

“No clue.” She didn’t have a penny to spare. She had to save all the money she had, whether to fund the weeks here in Minnesota or to pay for a new ticket to Europe, if by any miracle she pulled off the relocation. “I won’t have a place here until the job starts, and I can’t go back to New York. I’ve sublet my apartment in Brooklyn.” And given up her job. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to go crawling back to her boss.

“Can your sister help you?”

Sky shook her head.

“Family? Boyfriend?”

She shook her head again. Her entire social circle, friends and family, lived from paycheck to paycheck.

“What do you think about staying here? Food and shelter in exchange for English tutoring for my crew?”

“You mean stay in this town with the crazy preppers?”

“Come on. You’d be doing me a huge favor. Think of living among survivalists as an anthropological experiment.”

She was tempted, really tempted. And it would solve her immediate financial problem. Still. “I don’t know.”

“The kids are extremely bright. High achievers. With a little help, they’ll be using conversational English in no time. The language knowledge is there, somewhere in their heads, waiting to make its way to their tongues, so to speak. They just came to a foreign country. They don’t know me or each other, and they’re shy. You could help break down that barrier.”

“The problem isn’t the kids, Alchemist, it’s the crazy doomsday preppers.”

“You don’t have to answer right now,” he coaxed. “Tomorrow the preppers are having a pasta party ahead of their 10K charity run. You could meet the whole bunch then.”

A 10K in this weather? With everything covered in snow? “Do preppers usually participate in 10Ks?” Somehow, she couldn’t picture it.

He nodded. “If they’re allowed to have bug-out bags, they do.”

She was scared to ask. “What the hell is a bug-out bag?”

“A must around here. It contains all you need to survive the first seventy-two hours after a disaster. Gas masks. Medicines. B-rations.”

Of course. She didn’t know why she’d even bothered asking.