Field Note No. 2

Tactical Error

I do not know what day it is in this forgotten wasteland.

I had just put on clean clothes. A decision I now see was arrogant. Foolish.

I should have known the infant was watching. Waiting.

I lifted her to my shoulder, believing this was a moment of bonding. A mistake. A grave tactical error.

Then… warmth.

I do not react. I cannot react. Sudden movements may trigger a second wave.

It comes anyway.

I stare into the distance. I have left my body.

I lower the baby and assess the damage. Shirt compromised. Bra… unsalvageable. Hair has entered the splash zone.

I consider changing. But I remember… this could happen again in minutes. The odds are not in my favor.

So I do what mothers in the wild have done for generations.

I sniff my shoulder.

Not to be disgusted, no. This is research. Data collection. How fresh is the spill? What is its consistency? What have I eaten?

She looks at me and smiles. Gummy. Innocent. As if she has not just committed an act of biological warfare.

I clean us both. I whisper, “It’s okay,” though I’m not sure who I’m reassuring.

Moments pass.

Then I hear it.

A small, bubbling sound. A warning tremor from deep within.

I close my eyes.

Not again.