It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because bodies don’t just bury themselves. The disease hit the village hard, harder than ever before. I was carrying carts of my own loved ones, on top of those who I knew. Old Mark, who I bought bread from, and Lucy, too, who raised me from a baby. I tried not to think about what - or who - was in my trusty cart. I loved that cart like a cowboy loves a horse. It was always there for me, and reliable, too. I hoped the wood splinters didn’t inherit any of the disease, and that it would be strong to live through this with me.

Just outside the cemetery gates, I coughed. I spit phlegm and stopped in my tracks, looking back at the bodies. If the town caretaker succumbed to the illness, who would bury the rest of the dead?