"You went to school with Ruth Newton, right? Do you remember her?"
The reply came fast: "Ruth Newton is still ALIVE? She didn't die?"
I blinked at the screen. "She's alive. Perfectly fine, as far as I can tell."
The typing indicator pulsed for three full minutes before her response appeared.
"Why are you asking about her?"
Her tone had shifted—serious now. I matched it.
"She's at my house. Planning to spend New Year's with my family."
What followed was an avalanche. Over a dozen voice messages, each one maxed out at sixty seconds.
My stomach dropped. Harper Collins was known for being flighty, never using ten words when two would do. Something was very wrong.
Her voice poured through the speaker, urgent and unrelenting.
"Get her out of there. She has an infectious disease. A serious one."
"With what she has, a common cold could kill her. She's been carrying it for three years—I was there when she got diagnosed at our hospital."
"How could you let her into your home? Are you out of your mind?"
"..."
More messages followed—documents, medical files, detailed records.
But no matter how much she sent, three words burned brightest.
Infectious disease.
A serious one.