Necrotizing Fasciitis

Winner of the Hundred Micro Fiction Contest, May 2020

They’re six feet apart.

We aren’t.

We’re packed together, coiled between steel barriers under a cloudless sky. I breathe in
the hot air. It smells of summer and dust. I’ve missed this.

They call out next and we shuffle forward. I bump into the man in front of me. He
doesn’t notice, only coughs wetly. The woman behind me stumbles. Her breathing is shallow and
quick. Over the sea of bowed heads and slumped shoulders looms a white tent.

They’re six feet apart, with plexiglass shields and breathing apparatuses.

We aren’t.

Because it’s too late for us.