The vaccine that had seemed so close to being created months ago had quietly disappeared from the news. Everyone seemed to know someone who was fighting for their life against the invisible foe.

But thanks to the continuing pandemic, Chris, in his stolen identity as Juan C. Torres, had moved from trainee to shift manager at a speed that was unusual, even for a fast food place. Some of that was because Chris literally had centuries of experience in taking odd jobs, but most of it seemed to be because he never showed the slightest symptom of a cold or an allergy.

"Wish I had twenty people with your constitution," Dwight told him wistfully.

Chris smiled at the pale man who was far too thin to seem like someone closely associated with any kind of reputable restaurant. "It's just my luck in the genetic lottery," Chris joked truthfully.

"Are you sure you'll be okay with a double shift?" Dwight asked nervously.

Chris nodded without hesitation. It was ironic, but the easing of the isolation restrictions had brought renewed prosperity to the fast food shops that had weathered the first months of the pandemic. Chris cared less about the numbers, apart from being grateful to have the job, than he did about the smiles on people's faces.

The hot fried foods and cold sweets that had been the bane of millions of diets had become the rare treats that they perhaps always should have been, and providing the foods that had long been subjected to the most careful scrutiny by health inspectors across the world felt like a much more worthwhile occupation than Chris had expected.

"Thanks again, I don't know what I'd do without you," Dwight insisted.

"You would no doubt think of something," Chris prevaricated. "Go home and get some rest."

"It's just allergies," Dwight grumbled weakly. "This is just the worst year ever. Spring came through on a bleeding rampage, and all the drug companies are busy pumping out virus tests."

Chris hesitated. "Perhaps everyone in your position needs to rethink phrases like 'just' allergies, or 'just' the flu, under the circumstances?"

"Believe me, everyone with pollen allergies has felt like dying for what feels like an eternity now," Dwight responded emphatically.

Chris cleared his throat conversationally and explained, "Everyone in management I meant."

Dwight stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. "We can't afford to give people sick pay and time off for their allergies. Especially not when we have to keep paying for tests to prove that nobody's really sick."

Chris wanted to roll his eyes, but he simply shrugged and watched Dwight stagger off.

"Hypocrite," Rose muttered as she edged through with the trash bags from the front. She rarely missed a shift, and had worked at the shop for longer than Chris had, but had seemed utterly resigned to the fact that he'd been promoted instead of her. She met his eyes and tossed her head toward the door. "Him," she clarified.

Chris offered her a smile and suggested, "It is probably difficult to keep track of such minor discrepancies with a head full of nothing but snot."

Rose snorted with amusement. "Prob'ly," she agreed.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Chris checked the supply of gloves, freshly laundered masks, and the trimmed pieces of special filter fabric that were inserted between the layers. He quickly cut out another stack. For all of his complaints and stereotypical inconsideration, Dwight had gone to lengths to ensure that his employees all had access to the required protective gear, and did not demand that they provide their own.

The shop practically gleamed, partially because they no longer allowed people to dine inside it, but also because the required sanitary procedures meant that things were now being washed dozens of times every day. The harsh soap that they were using was an economization that Chris could actually be applauded for, if anyone had thought to investigate. The soap was nearly as old fashioned as some of Chris' habits, crafted from fat and lye, and was actually being produced relatively locally by a small business.

Rose paused on her way back through, to wash her hands between glove changes, and asked rather suddenly, "Think you'll stay long? I mean, this's kinda beneath you ain't it?"

Chris blinked at her warily. "I'll probably stay on for a few years?" he responded more lightly than the possibilities he could think of for the question warranted. At least until Mac was gone.

"But you've like, been to college and all, right?" Rose asked.

"Several times," Chris agreed dryly.

"Oh. I getcha. I always meant to finish up too. Not much chance of that now," she said regretfully.

"In another decade things that you have no expectations of right now will be completely normal," Chris promised.

Rose gazed at him doubtfully, and looked around the shop, while Eddie shouted from the back, "Extra extra extra cheese!"

Chris thought of the milk product held in a gelatinous form by chemistry that they called cheese, and grinned at the example. "Bet your granny wouldn't call this stuff cheese, but it's completely normal, right?"

Rose snorted again, but her cheeks rose, showing the smile hidden by her mask. "Ha. My gram can't cook anything that don't come in a box, she wouldn't eat cheese for a week after I took her on a tour at the cheese factory," she informed him. "I'd rather some things never become normal like that to me."

"True. There's a lot of things I'd like to put on that list," Chris agreed as a customer dropped his paper mask beside his car and then drove away. Rose turned and looked for what he was looking at, and heaved a resigned sigh. "I'll do the sweep," Chris told her firmly.

"Thanks," she replied gratefully.

Chris mimed pinching coins and pointed out, "Extra duties are what I'm getting paid the big bucks for."

"You earn 'em Mr. Torres," Rose assured him.

The name still seemed like an alias to him, but he tried not to let that show. Neither Anne nor Mac ever used it, and Amaru still hardly used names at all.

--

"What if we can't win? Maybe in a hundred years the only people who are left will be the ones who are naturally immune?" the man in the suit asked tiredly.

"Maybe," she agreed cheerfully, as though it had nothing to do with her.

His expression was sour as he watched her peel a grape and eat it, an occupation that he was sure would have amused him once. The light caught her hair, which was redder than any natural coloring should allow, but which showed no trace of manufacture. A loose scarf lay around her shoulders, her only concession to the requirement of having a cloth to cover her face with, and he wondered if she'd even bothered to use it on her way here.

"There's no point in worrying about it," she added. "Humans are disgustingly resilient."

Her phrasing made a ridiculous idea flicker just below his awareness, but it escaped when she held up her phone and showed him the image on the screen. "What is that?" he asked blankly.

"Research on the percentage of Neanderthal genes in modern humans," she explained. "They seem to be shocked by the fact that the two races could still interbreed." She snorted in an unladylike fashion.

"Okay?" he replied questioningly. "How did that come up?"

"I was looking up what a bigfoot is," she confided. "People are comparing sightings of things like them to sightings of real animals. Look, this article also talks about penguins and dragons!"

"Because none of those sightings are real either?" he suggested dryly. Her smile was smug, and her eyes twinkled, and somehow the ridiculous topic really did lift his worries. Reality didn't change, but something in his perspective seemed to shift, and he remembered why he'd thrown caution to the wind and invited a beautiful woman to his home.

He forgot again when he met her eyes, and she switched the topic back to his complaint, "But anyway, wouldn't you be glad if everyone was already immune to this in only a hundred years?"