The Thanatos Syndrome

won’t be entirely accurate, because if there’s a John Hebert who’s positive, the census will give us half a dozen John Heberts right here in Feliciana. You understand?”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œBut we’ll get some sort of distribution.”
    â€œGreat.”
    Another half hour of phone work, little-black-box work, page flipping, key hitting, user names, user codes, access codes, logging in, PIVs, Hal’s initial outrage, user authorization denied, SNERROR, QUERY QUERY QUERY, NIX—Hal relenting, until finally there is a single meek little green-for-go o?.
    â€œOkay what?” I ask.
    â€œCross your fingers.”
    â€œOkay.”
    She takes a breath. “Here we go.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œI’m afraid to hit the key,” says Lucy, grabbing me, eyes round.
    â€œShow me the key and I’ll hit it.”
    She shows me the key, turns her face. I hit the key. Something is wrong.
    It looks like a weather map. It looks like what happens when the TV weatherman switches to his satellite map of Louisiana streaked with cold fronts, upper level clouds, clear black sunshine.
    â€œI don’t get it, Lucy. What are we looking at?”
    Lucy is laughing, eyes rounded, triumphant. She grabs me. “You don’t get it. Okay, let’s zoom in. What do you see now?”
    â€œIt looks like a weather front right on top of Feliciana. But there is no front.
    â€œLook again.” Zooming closer.
    There is Feliciana as before and there are the clouds, closer, grainier. Now I see it. But surely not. It can’t be. The clouds are particulate, galactic clouds of tiny twinkling stars, as if the screen had been hit by a handful of Christmas glitter. Part of Baton Rouge is a regular snowfield.
    â€œDo you mean to tell me—” I begin, hardly believing what I see.
    â€œI mean to tell you,” says Lucy, face close, big-eyed, holding on to me like a ten-year-old.
    â€œâ€”that each dot is—”
    â€œâ€”a case of heavy sodium. I only asked for sodium. Every dot on that graphic is a person. You’re looking at the actual geographical distribution of your syndrome.”
    There is nothing to do but gaze. “That’s beautiful,” I say finally. “You’re beautiful.”
    â€œI know! I know!” She hugs me. “Oh, I’m so sorry about— but I’m also so glad about—”
    I say nothing, gaze at the screen.
    â€œZoom back.”
    â€œOkay.”
    A single rack of clouds hangs over Feliciana like a warm front backed up from the Gulf. Strange: the lakefront is mostly clear, even though it’s high-density population. Baton Rouge? Northwest quadrant of the city cloudy, central and south lightly speckled, a scattering of star clusters over Feliciana.
    â€œWhat’s the factor?” I ask Lucy. “You’re the epidemiologist.”
    â€œI know, I know. It’s under our noses. We’re looking right at it and can’t see it.”
    â€œLook harder.”
    â€œLook at that.” She points to Baton Rouge. “It’s a starry yin embracing a clear yang. It’s telling us. It’s practically shouting.”
    â€œYou listen.” I get up. The toddies and the time have caught up with me.
    â€œYou okay?” she asks, pulling me down, staring into one eye, then the other.
    â€œI’m tired. Let’s sleep on it.”
    â€œDon’t leave.” She takes my arm.
    â€œI’m not going anywhere. See you in the morning. We’ll talk about this stuff. Interesting.”
    â€œOne thing,” she says. We’re standing in the dim hall.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI want you to take these.” She puts something in my hand. Two capsules.
    â€œWhat are these?”
    â€œAlanone.”
    â€œWhy should I take them?”
    â€œTom,” she says. “Do you trust me?”
    â€œSure.” I try to see her face, but the dim light of the chandelier is behind her.
    â€œWould you trust me now and take those without asking whys and wherefores?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh dear.” She sighs. “I didn’t think you would.”
    â€œI think you’d better tell what this is about.”
    â€œOh my. Very well. I guess I have to.” She was touching me but now she’s moved away a little. Her face, in the light now, is tender and grave.
    Another déjà vu. The tragic tingle of bad news, the sweet sorrow to