Chapter Text
The acrid tang of cigarette smoke was a constant presence in Jon’s life. It was reassuring in its sharpness, in the possibility it offered of sneaking outside, behind the spindly fire exit stairs, to inhale the taste of bitter smoke. Self-destructive, potentially. Martin always gave him a slightly sharp look when he got up from his desk to walk towards the fire exit. But Martin was something of a moraliser, or maybe even just an idealist with unrealistic expectations of human behaviour. Today, though, smoking did not feel at all reassuring. Jon had developed a persistent and worsening cough. It had settled into his lungs Monday morning, interrupting his usually intense focus as he filed statements. Stood outside behind the institute, with a beautiful view of the grimy parking lot, Jon began to cough again.
His lungs seemed to be turning inside of him – he could feel their physical presence, which was unsettling. Organs weren’t supposed to be felt. Worse, his ribs hurt from the spasms that echoed through his chest. Jon pressed a hand to the wall, suddenly out of breath. Unsettled, he snuffed his cigarette out against the damp grey stone of the building. It was cold – November already, and raining in a persistent, mist-like manner that dampened even the thickest wool sweater. He was likely coming down with a cold – half the archive was sniffling or sneezing. Sasha seemed particularly afflicted, and a box of tissues had taken up residence on her desk. Jon had requested she take the day off tomorrow, as the threat of contagion was strong, and being ill would seriously interrupt Jon’s work. He was already drowning in obligation. The statements needing to be sorted were in endless supply, particularly now that they seemed to be refusing the convenience of digitalization. Jon was tired, more tired than he wanted to admit. It was not permissible to indulge himself in luxuries like sleep, however, when the state of the archive depended on his diligence.
‘You look terrible, mate.’
So, Tim had joined him in his smoker's corner. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence.
‘An apt observation, unfortunately. Like the rest of the archive, I have taken slightly ill. But I’m taking measures to ensure my productivity will remain unimpacted.’
‘Sucking up to Elias again, are you. You’re the reason workers don’t have rights. I bet you think the government should be more careful with its spending as well.’
‘I’m an archivist, I hardly know enough about politics to comment.’
Tim looked unimpressed. But his dismayed expression was interrupted by Jon’s fiercest coughing fit yet – Jon couldn’t get a breath in, his lungs seemed irritatingly intent on killing him within the next few moments. Worse, he felt that something had been shaken loose, and when he looked at his hand, he saw that it was wet with blood. Tim actually seemed somewhat concerned.
‘Fucking hell boss, that’s not normal. You should go to a doctor or something. Colds don’t cause people to casually cough up blood like that.’
Tim was right, of course. It probably wasn’t anything major, but Jon’s cough was beginning to get on his nerves. Maybe a doctor could provide some sort of syrup that would eliminate it.
‘I will do what needs to be done. With the state the archives are in, I can’t afford to be out of commission for too long. I’ll book myself an emergency appointment tomorrow morning.’
The rest of the day passed without too much intrigue. Jon still felt unwell, but he ignored it in favour of descending into a series of increasingly dubious statements. The foolishness of the general public never failed to dampen his mood – their wishful thinking and flights of fantasy, their desires to see shadows in the emptiness of night. At some point, Martin brought Jon a cup of tea.
‘Heard you’ve caught the bug. Had it last week myself, definitely not a fun experience. I was up with a fever for two nights in a row!’
So, Tim had told the whole archive that Jon was indisposed. Not really great for his image, if he was honest.
‘I’ll recover. Sickness is a fleeting inconvenience.’
‘Stop being such a stoic, my god.’
Tim walked over, clearly having overheard the conversation.
‘He’s the epitome of emotional repression, isn’t he!’
This was probably true, but Jon wasn’t going to disclose his deep-set complexes to his co-workers. So, he said nothing and idly sipped at his tea, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t dreading taking the Victoria line back to his tiny, cramped, and somehow still empty and lonely flat in Brixton.
The tube was stuffy and overcrowded as always. Jon hated it with a surprisingly strong intensity. But otherwise, his evening was unremarkable. While his cough did not subside, Jon learned to ignore it. He probably should have stopped smoking, but he didn’t, leaning out of his window and gazing down at the passersby. No one who knew Jon thought that he would enjoy people-watching, but it had always given him an odd sense of comfort, particularly when he was separated from whatever crowd he was observing. It was nice to know people were there, living their ordinary, mundane, and yet beautiful lives, without having to interact with them in any meaningful way.
The next morning, Jon called the GP to book an appointment. Oddly, he was successful – probably because he was sure to call at eight O’clock sharp, even though this wasn’t a guarantee of getting an appointment at an oversubscribed London practice. Fucking God, he felt awful. Whatever symptoms he’d been experiencing had intensified overnight – his cough had prevented him from sleeping, and he’d begun to have sweating spells of such intensity that they drenched through his t-shirt and onto the sheets. Though he turned all the radiators to their maximum setting, he still felt as though he were freezing. If this continued, he would have to take time off work – a thought that filled him with dread. Some part of Jon had begun to depend on the archives. For purpose and stability, if nothing else. Left to his own devices, he was a bit of a wreck – the state of his flat attested to this.
Jon made his way to the GP, expecting to receive the diagnosis of an ordinary flu, or something else equally inconsequential. Inconvenient, but not particularly disruptive, and quite transient. No doubt he would be well within a week. The GP, however, seemed to think differently. Upon listening to Jon’s lungs, with her stethoscope, she showed signs of immediate concern.
‘Simply put, your lungs do not sound healthy. There are signs of an obstruction. It could be something as simple as an infection, or something more serious. I’ll order a biopsy and an X-ray as soon as possible, and start you on antibiotics for good measure.’
Jon immediately considered the possibility of lung cancer – he’d been smoking since adolescence, after all. Dying would be less than ideal, but if it was his fate, there wasn’t exactly anything he could do about it. Still, mortality remained a looming and shadowesque spectre as Jon went about his everyday life. Against better advice, he dragged himself onto the tube and to the archives, though he felt distinctly feverish. He figured that Ibuprofen should bring his temperature down, if only somewhat.
Once at work, Jon sequestered himself in his office – refusing Martin’s tea and Tim’s conversation. He simply did not want to be perceived while ill, the inherent vulnerability of his position was too humiliating. It was possible, if he tried hard enough, to convince himself of the dominion of mind over matter. With his intellect intact, Jon could continue to live his every day, reassuringly dull, life despite whatever unholy illness might be growing within his body. Despite his increasing fear of lung cancer, Jon continued with his smoke breaks. The archives were pervaded with an oppressive atmosphere, thick and ephemeral, that lurked behind the too-tall shelves and in the cobwebbed, cracked, corners. Sometimes, he had to remove himself in order to be able to think clearly.
As always, Tim joined him on his smoke breaks.
‘You look even worse than you did yesterday, which is genuinely impressive.’
Jon tried to sigh but was interrupted by a cough.
‘I’m aware.’
‘So, did you go to the GP? What did they say?’
‘Why are you taking such an interest in my health?’
‘Friendly concern for my fellow human beings, which is more than I can say for most here. Except maybe Martin.’
Jon almost laughed, if only at the truth of Tim’s statement. Elias wasn’t particularly warm, empathic, or approachable.
‘Only that I may have lung cancer.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘They rang me earlier. I’m required for a biopsy – and an X-ray - at the hospital tomorrow.’
‘Shit.’
Tim wasn’t overly sentimental, which was a reassurance for Jon, who compulsively avoided any emotion that felt like it might encourage intimacy or vulnerability. This was a flaw in his character, but like most deep-set flaws, it was frustratingly immutable. Even Georgie had been unable to decipher the layers of Jon’s thwarted attempts at emotional expression. Jon took another drag at his cigarette, feeling oddly like a rebellious teenager intent on self-destruction.
The next day, Jon dragged himself to Kings College Hospital. His malaise had kept him up throughout the last night, intensified by the thought of death – the world looked different when there was even a slight chance you might have to leave it. The Thames continued its slow crawl to the sea, and the pigeons still cried at dawn. To Jon’s feverish mind, life seemed suddenly beautiful in its impartiality. Even the tube took on a new resonance. On the way to the hospital, he tried to imagine the lives of those around him – where they were going, what secret troubles they might be carrying with them. Their faces revealed nothing, they remained lost in newspapers or books, and some listened to music or talked to nearby friends.
Jon’s lungs revealed no trace of any malignancy. They were, however, full of lesions. The doctor didn’t rule out cancer immediately, but Jon was subject to a whole new set of tests designed to detect infectious diseases.
‘It’s most likely that you have a lung infection of some sort. This would likely be pneumonia, but in extremely rare cases we might see tuberculosis.’
‘Tuberculosis? Wasn’t that eradicated in the 20th century?’
‘Not exactly. It’s still prevalent in much of the world, though not generally in the UK. The good news is that it’s treatable with antibiotics in most cases.’
Jon left the hospital that evening, having been forced to take a day off work for the biopsy procedure. The doctors put him on an antibiotic and told him that his results would be ready within a couple of weeks. Though no longer convinced of his immediate demise, Jon felt no better. The antibiotics refused to touch the fevers that still afflicted him every evening, and his cough became increasingly disruptive. Jon grew accustomed to illness, and most of his colleagues at the institute learned to stop asking questions. This did not, however, apply to either Tim or Martin. One time, as Jon was digging around in his drawer for a lighter, Martin walked over and directly told Jon off for smoking.
‘Really? With that death-like cough of yours, I certainly wouldn’t. Have an oolong tea instead, I bought some really posh loose-leaf from Waitrose. With bougie Manuka honey, too’.
Jon obliged, too tired to argue. The tea was quite nice, to be fair.
‘Your taste in tea is single-handedly heightening the standards of the whole archive, which is not financially feasible. We should have simply settled for Yorkshire.’
Martin smiled.
‘Elias’ expense. And I believe he shops exclusively at Waitrose, anyway. By the way, Sasha invited all of us out for dinner tonight. Including you.’
The thought of a social obligation filled Jon with dread. Group conversations unsettled him with their fast pace and chaotic energy. Besides, his illness had sapped him of his already scant energy resources. Some days, it was hard to stay awake enough to appropriately file statements – even though the Jane Prentiss case had generally increased tension in the archives. But Martin looked insistent.
Sasha had chosen a small Italian place in Marylebone – which was relatively tolerable. Jon ordered classic spaghetti and several glasses of red wine, though he usually wasn’t a drinker. Too self-restrained and pragmatic for indulgences of the body. Still, He hoped that the alcohol would alleviate the weight of yet another grating and all too-long day. By the end of the night, he felt pleasantly spaced out. Martin was going on about a book he had recently read – The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann. It seemed to involve some German youth’s internment in a sanatorium. Why Martin hadn’t spent more time at university, Jon didn’t know.
‘I mean, don’t we all want to escape our boring jobs?’ Sasha commented.
‘Yes, but not to the point where we stop living.’ Martin replied.
Tim looked unsure about this.
‘I would certainly not be sacrificing my mortal soul to Elias on a daily basis if I had any other option. I mean, look at what has become of Jon already. This is what capitalism does to a man.’
Tim waved his hand towards Jon, who was, at that point, on the verge of falling asleep. His evening fever had intersected with the wine, turning the world soft and ephemeral. Voices felt muddled, as did his thoughts. This was almost unnerving enough to wake him up.
‘I don’t know why you think, Tim, that anything has become of me. I am merely doing what I am supposed to, fulfilling my admittingly daunting task as head archivist.’
‘Have you looked in a mirror this past month?’
Sasha looked slightly unsettled, though she was laughing
‘Careful, he is our boss!’
‘Power dynamics aside, the man is clearly going through it. Don’t think I’ve ever seen eye bags as deep as his.’
Jon couldn’t deny that he was tired. The exhaustion had crept into his soul, made everyday tasks into something leaden and oppressive. At that moment, he longed to curl up in bed and block out the pressing weight of the world. It was hard to keep his eyes open – not wanting his colleagues to know the full extent of his illness, Jon decided it was time to leave.
‘As we all have work tomorrow, I believe it is time that I take my leave. I’m going to pay for my portion of the meal. I will see you all in the office at 9 am.’
As he was leaving, however, Jon stumbled and nearly fell onto the pavement. He would have fallen, in fact, if Tim had not caught him.
‘Graceful exit, boss. But anyone can see that you’re severely messed up tonight.’
‘I’ll call you a cab.’ Martin offered. Jon silently obliged, too tired to face the chaos of the tube. Only when Tim placed a hand on his shoulder did Jon realise that he had nearly fallen off his seat, which was humiliating. Thankfully, Tim quickly offered an exit in the form of a smoking break while they waited for Jon’s taxi.
‘Think Martin missed his calling as a literature professor. He writes poetry, you know. Caught him at it once, when he was supposedly sorting statements. Fancies himself as a bit of a repressed artist.’
‘Everyone is entitled to their hobbies; I only wish my employees wouldn’t waste the ever-dwindling time given to us to sort out the absolute catastrophe that is the Archives.’
‘Why are you so obsessed with work?’
‘Because, Tim, it is the only thing left in my life that has any direction or meaning. Is that the answer you wanted to hear?
Jon took a drag on his cigarette and immediately regretted his outburst. But he felt oddly at ease. The air was cold, even with his thick wool sweater and long black scarf. Jon couldn’t help but notice the clarity of the night, how the lights were gently reflected in the windows of closed shops. Though he had never been a writer, Jon could certainly understand how one, if they were in a foolish mood, might see poetry in the world. Soon, however, his taxi materialised from the end of the street and pulled up onto the curb. To Jon’s absolute horror, Tim helped him get into the car, which mercifully drove away the next moment.
Jon’s fever intensified the moment he returned to his flat. The world felt soft as if it were under a thick layer of water or glass. His skin was covered with a thin veneer of sweat, and he violently shivered the second it touched the air. Even under the dense wall of blankets he had built, the cold still crept. His hands shook uncontrollably, despite his best efforts to still them. Jon couldn’t keep his frustration at bay. Two weeks on the antibiotics, and his condition was only worsening. Could it be a form of cancer, after all? The gaze of mortality turned on him, once again. Would anyone truly miss him, when he inevitably died? Both of his parents had died when he was young, and Granny had been gone for nearly a decade. Georgie had long since broken up with him, though they were still friends, however improbably. He was alone in the world – the emptiness of his overpriced little flat intensified, absence entered into his soul and brought to light all the things he could have had if he hadn’t been stupid and unappreciative enough to drive them away. Old doubts ate at his thoughts until he fell into a fitful sleep.
The phone rang early the next morning, telling him to come and collect his results from the hospital. Still feeling too unsteady for the tube, Jon called another shameful cab. The hospital was, as always, grey and looming. He entered and made his way towards the phenomenology department, where was greeted by an hour's wait in the waiting room. Most of the people waiting with him were old, with grizzled faces and grey hair. He was deeply relieved when the doctor finally called out ‘Jonathan Sims.’
Apparently, Jon was suffering from a case of particularly drug-resistant pulmonary tuberculosis. The doctor wasn’t at all sure how he might have caught it, particularly because Jon lived a largely celibate lifestyle. TB was, to some extent, a sexually transmitted illness. Most cases occurred in the global south – the more severe forms of TB were almost unheard of in the UK, though anti-biotic resistance was a growing issue worldwide. Jon learned that it might have been latent in his body for years before he developed symptoms, which was a strange thought. An illness that slowly crept through him, without him being aware. It had an unnervingly Prentiss-like resonance.
‘How long can I expect to remain ill?’
The doctor only looked at him, his eyes squinting a bit, but the rest of his features were obscured by a protective mask. The clinically of the room made Jon uncomfortable.
‘That is, unfortunately, a difficult question to answer. There are many secondary lines of antibiotics we can try, but the results are mixed. The cure rate is roughly fifty percent – though you are young enough that I am optimistic. But I think it’s fair to say that you can expect to undergo treatment for around two years.’
Far longer than the week or so he had been anticipating when he thought that he only had a cold. The first thought that occurred to him was how he might have to adapt his life so he could continue working – without the archives, Jon was nothing but a lonely, sad man, living an isolated life in a big city where he barely scraped by. Unfortunately, the doctor had worse news still.
‘It is customary to quarantine patients with severe strains of TB for around a month in hospital. This might be upsetting, but you strike me as a smart man. I hope you understand that this is so we can stop the disease from spreading any further. A bed has been prepared for you in the infectious disease ward.’
‘Don’t you understand that I’m a working man? I can’t reasonably expect to be sequestered up in a ward for a month, when I have pressingly important things to do! What am I going to say to my boss?’
Jon felt like punching something, which was an unusual and disconcerting experience. For a second, he even wanted to storm out of the building and sulk away into the masses of the London population, spreading his deadly disease among them. The guilt from this thought was immediate and painful. But he was right to be concerned – if Elias learned that Jon had to take a month’s health leave, would he simply hire a new archivist to replace him? Jon had no delusions of value to his institution.
‘Your boss has been informed of the situation – protocol requires us to test everyone in your workplace. He will be visiting you in hospital tomorrow.’
A few moments later, a nurse entered the room and loaded Jon onto a gurney. He was taken to a new, smaller room, where he was stripped of his clothes and given a flimsy paper blue gown. The cold hospital air, which smelled of anti-septic and dread, made him shiver. He was wheeled through corridors of people who looked far sicker than himself – old men with yellowing skin who groaned with pain, pallid little children who cried, even when their parents held them, and an emancipated man of around twenty with tubes connected to his arms. Jon felt strangely guilty that his only complaints were of a low-grade fever and a cough, even if he had a disease as historically dramatic as tuberculosis. He was still feeling slightly numb to his situation, and one of the only things he could think about, besides work, was how strangely funny it was to be suffering from such an old-fashioned disease in the modern world. The joke at the archives was that Jon was a bit of an anachronism, in his wire-rimmed glasses and leather oxfords. To Sasha’s annoyance, he even occasionally wore a tweed waistcoat. He feared that his tuberculosis would only intensify these jokes, once everyone inevitably learned of it.
The gurney eventually deposited him in a sterile little room. Jon was grateful for the small window that overlooked Ruskin Park, a place he had occasionally walked through in the past. Once the nurse left, Jon walked over to the window and allowed himself a moment of melancholy reflection. It was only around four in the afternoon, but the sun had already begun to set, a hush of soft evening light falling over the distant trees. It was too quiet in the little room, not even the beep of nearby monitors could be heard. Jon was scared that his confinement would change him – the complete upheaval of the work-dominated life he had known would turn him into someone he didn’t recognise, with strange new priorities and a complete lack of social connection. Loathe as he was to admit it, his co-workers were the only people he saw on a regular basis. The silence hurt him, after a few hours. The fluorescent lights were too bright overhead, but it felt too depressing to hang around in the dark. Worst of all, he wasn’t permitted smoking breaks. Under no circumstances could he leave this little room.
Occasionally, nurses would enter the room and hook him to new drips. He was required to be on IV antibiotics for a while, which would eventually be exchanged for daily shots and pills. Jon saw himself reflected in the window – he looked a bit like the young man he’d seen in the hallway, earlier that day – his thinness exuberated by the oversized hospital gown, tubes now falling out of his own arms. The image of illness had settled into him. Jon wondered how long it would take for it to leave. He finally tired enough to allow himself to sleep, shivering with fever as usual. He borrowed himself into the hospital duvet, ashamed of how cold he felt, of the sweat that glistened revoltingly at his forehead.
The very next morning, he was awakened by the presence of Elias in the chair facing his bed– a facemask covering his features.
‘This is not a willing fashion choice, I assure you. The hospital required me to wear it.’
‘It’s for your own good, I’m afraid. You don’t exactly want to catch what I have when you have a whole institute to run.’
Elias scoffed slightly.
‘How very romantic of you to come down with consumption, Jon. Byronic, even. While it is something of an inconvenience from a workplace perspective, I’m sure we’ll be able to sort things out. I’ve been talking to the head of this hospital – I’ve made it known that it is very important I have access to a qualified Archivist.’
‘Am I truly that valuable, Elias? I work hard, yes, but no one is irreplaceable. There are many archivists in the world just as qualified as I am.’
Jon knew he should be grateful that Elias seemed poised to keep him employed in some way, but deep down he was tired of work and its monotony. Of waking up in the morning, shoving himself onto the tube, walking down from Pimlico station in the rain, cigarette in his mouth. He’d only been here a day, and already he was beginning to see, however unwillingly, the value in respite. But he would have to go back eventually, wouldn’t he? No matter how ill he felt, the archives were where he belonged. It was an odd sense of belonging; one he couldn’t quite understand. But Jon was partial to the dimly lit shelves of dusty statements.
‘I’m afraid that you, Jon, are. Do you understand how long I had to search for an Archivist of your calibre? How many applicants I met with and found unworthy of my time? It’s hard to find a man as dedicated to the preservation of statements as you have proven yourself to be.’
Jon felt strangely flattered. He noticed that Elias had left a bouquet of white flowers on his bedside table, with a card attached by a little red string. Somewhat trite, but it was amusing that his usually distant boss would have spent the time to buy Jon flowers.
Elias saw Jon looking at the flowers.
‘I bought them from the hospital shop. Let no one say that I don’t care for those in my employment. It was quite difficult to even convince them to let me into this ward, let alone your room. Precautionary measures and all. I’m afraid they won’t let me stay very long.’
With that, a nurse came into the room and saw Elias out. Jon opened the little card left on his dresser. It was a get-well message, wishing him a quick recovery. He would have found it bland, if not for the little drawing of an eye at the bottom of the card. It reminded him of the old engraving that was inscribed into the Magnus Institute. He’d initially found it uncanny, but eventually, it grew to symbolise the place quite well. He always felt slightly watched, in the archives. As if some penetrating gaze waited around every corner. Elias himself had a penetrating gaze – large grey eyes that always seemed a bit too knowing. His boss’ insistence on eye contact had caught Jon off guard when he first interviewed to join the institute. He stuck the card back on the table, and climbed into bed, assuming the role of an ill man – shameful though it was, what else could be expected of someone in a hospital?
The nights past silently, and the days softly. It was a dull existence, but rather peaceful, Jon had to admit. The doctors had suspended his obligation of working for the time being, and Elias had yet to visit again. Nor had anyone else from the archives, nor Georgie. But he had held no expectations that they would. Sometimes, in that dusky hour between day and full-dark, Jon would sit in his half-lit room, look longingly out people walking dogs in the park, and feel sorry for himself. He was alone, and seemingly eternally ill. The fevers still came every night, and, to the mass confusion of the entire pulmonology team, none of the usual antibiotics used for drug-resistant TB seemed to be working. In a world where increasing anti-biotic resistance was a concern, this was an unsettling development – and Jon suffered the misfortune of being at the centre. Along with the usual rhythm of nurses and doctors, several medical students had begun to peer into his room and whisper softly to each other - as if they were afraid he would overhear their conversation. Jon knew that his case was something of a novelty, but he resented the scrutiny this placed him under. In the hushed lull of the small hours, he could find strange enjoyment in his solitude; in the black silhouettes of trees in the park and in the distant and constant whir of unknowable machinery.
Sometimes, he cursed the tube, which he fully blamed for his infection. With so many people comingling in such a tiny, cramped, space, something would inevitably go wrong. Honestly, he was lucky to only have tuberculosis and not the bubonic plague. One night, when Jon was considering his miserable lot, the door to his room opened. Fully expecting another nurse ready to hook him up to some new tube of ambiguous purpose, Jon didn’t bother to turn around. He was shocked when he heard Elias’ voice.
‘Hasn’t the clinical atmosphere gotten a bit old, Jon? Perhaps it’s even counterproductive to your recovery. Well, me and the hospital’s board of directors have been having some pretty intense discussions, these past few weeks.’
‘And?’
‘They’re letting you out of hospital, provided the Institute can meet the conditions of your quarantine. You will be allowed to go back to work. A room will be prepared for you in the building. And because I truly do care about you, Jon, I’ve hired a private nursing team who will see to your more medical needs.’
Of course, Elias would have the money to do such a thing. It still annoyed Jon, who would rather not have burdened anyone with the complexities of his recent medical developments.
‘I’m not a complete invalid, I don’t need a nurse.’
‘Would you rather I change your antibiotic drip, and take your temperature, then? A bit too intimate for our strictly professional boss/employee relationship, but that’s the alternative.’
Jon couldn’t argue with this. He knew that he should be grateful for the chance to leave the hospital, but returning to the institute made him oddly wary. He had come to enjoy the unsettling stillness and quiet of the quarantine ward, in a perverse sort of way. Even the presence of death that pervaded the hospital softened in the small hours, when Jon would sit in the chair by the window and contemplate the city lights.
‘So, when do I leave? This place is no good for my productivity, seeing as I’ve been forbidden to do any work.’
‘Tomorrow morning, so better pack your things. I’ve arranged a special car to pick you up and drive you to the institute.’
It wasn’t like Jon had much to pack; only some toiletries and the few sets of clothes that had been returned to him after thorough disinfection. He wondered if he could commission someone from the archive to enter his flat and collect more of his things, but reconsidered this when he remembered his newfound bio-hazard status. Was it possible that illness now entered into everything he touched? Had he become some sort of Jane Prentiss-lite, only differing from her in that his sense of self was seemingly intact? Jon had no answers to any of these questions. After shoving his things into a small bag, Jon sprawled back onto his anti-septic white bed sheets, and his last night at the hospital passed monotonously, hours falling into each other like the sound of the rain and wind against his window.