THE PLAGUES STEPH CHA
It had been going for almost 10 minutes now, the furious wingbeat of a helicopter, somewhere above the house. Yuna—arms crossed, barefoot, 15 weeks pregnant—stepped outside and stared up.
She hadn’t left the house in days, even to sit in the yard. They had a nice setup—teak furniture, a propane grill—but it was like she’d forgotten that was something she could do, open the door and breathe the raw air. She’d grown used to confinement, her sphere of movement shrinking to the square footage of the house, its still, quiet rooms. The rest of the world had dimmed. Her memory, her need of it, fading with disuse.
The sky was a cheerful, mocking blue, empty but for the helicopter, which hovered a few blocks west, its long black feet like the talons of a giant bird of prey. It bore the logo of a local news station. Yuna’s hand flitted instinctively to her stomach, the little life within. She hurried back inside and closed the door.
Arthur was in the den, on the couch where he’d spent most of his waking hours day-trading and watching Netflix since he’d lost his job the week oil prices dove into the negatives. He wore a monogrammed bathrobe, his half of a wedding gift from Yuna’s aunt, who said it was the same kind of robe they had at the Ritz. It had sat, untouched, in the linen closet for two years, until the first morning of Arthur’s unemployment, when he put it on with a pungently
