Chapter 4 — "Lines We Don't Cross"
March 13, 2025 — 169 days before Day One
A Shared Thread through back channels:
Protocols exist to preserve order.
People exist to preserve meaning.
When the two collide, someone has to choose.
Sandy — Sumterville High (Before First Bell)Sandra Duvall had lived long enough to know the sound of a lie.
It was quiet. Polite. Wrapped in procedure.
She stood at the front of the faculty room with a whistle hanging from her neck like she'd stepped back into a different decade. Teachers gathered around coffee cups and half-listening expressions.
"Today's drill is not for show," Sandy said. No preamble. No smile. "This is not a hurricane. This is not a fire."
Someone shifted uncomfortably.
"This is a containment drill," Sandy continued. "You will secure doors. You will account for students. You will not release anyone without administrative clearance. You will not improvise."
A hand went up. "Sandra—"
"No," Sandy snapped, sharper than she meant to—but not apologizing. "You don't get to 'but what if' me right now."
The room went still.
Sandy softened her tone, just a notch. "I have been doing this longer than most of you have been alive. When institutions start changing language instead of conditions, it means something is already broken."
She paced slowly.
"These drills are about muscle memory. Because when fear shows up, thinking goes out the window. I need you moving on instinct."
A few teachers nodded. Others looked uneasy.
Good, Sandy thought. Uneasy meant awake.
When the meeting ended, Sandy caught Eli by the door.
"You still listening to that radio?" she asked.
Eli didn't lie. "Yes."
Sandy nodded once. "Good. Because if this turns into a choice between protocol and kids—"
She didn't finish.
She didn't have to.
Hal & Eli — The History Wing (Planning Period)Hal shut the classroom door behind him and leaned against it like it might push back.
"This is insane," Hal said quietly. "You know that, right?"
Eli sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. "Define insane."
"Running drills like we're expecting violence without telling anyone why," Hal shot back. "That's not preparedness. That's manipulation."
Eli met his eyes. "It's containment."
Hal scoffed. "You hear yourself?"
"I hear the system," Eli replied. "And the system is choosing calm over truth."
Hal shook his head. "Truth matters."
"So does timing," Eli said. "Truth without timing is panic."
Hal stared at him, really stared—like he was trying to reconcile the teacher he trusted with the man in front of him now.
"You're asking me to lie," Hal said.
"No," Eli said evenly. "I'm asking you not to tell the whole truth yet."
"That's still a lie."
Eli's jaw tightened. "And what happens when you tell parents something you can't protect them from?"
Hal hesitated.
"That's the line," Eli continued. "Truth becomes cruelty when you can't back it up with action."
Hal exhaled hard. "And who decides when we cross that line?"
Eli didn't answer immediately.
Finally, he said, "I do. Until someone better steps up."
Hal laughed once, bitter. "You don't get to appoint yourself the moral center."
"No," Eli agreed. "But someone already has."
Hal looked away.
Outside, the bell rang. Kids laughed. Lockers slammed.
Normal noise.
"History teaches us this never ends cleanly," Hal said quietly.
Eli nodded. "That's why we decide our lines now."
Reagan — Chapel Storage Room (After School)Reagan Brooks waited until most of the school had emptied.
Then he knocked on Eli's door.
Eli looked up, surprised. "Everything okay?"
Reagan stepped inside, clutching his backpack strap like it anchored him. "I just… I had a question."
Eli closed his laptop. "Shoot."
Reagan hesitated. Then said it straight, because that was how he worked.
"What do we do," Reagan asked, "if the adults panic?"
The question hit harder than any news alert.
Eli gestured for him to sit. "Why do you ask that?"
Reagan shrugged. "My mom's church friends are already arguing. Some say it's judgment. Some say it's nothing. Some say the government's lying."
He swallowed. "They don't sound like leaders. They sound scared."
Eli leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Okay," he said. "Here's the practical answer."
Reagan listened like this mattered. Because it did.
"If adults panic," Eli said, "you don't challenge them. You ground them."
"How?"
"You ask questions that slow them down," Eli replied. "You give them jobs. You remind them what they're responsible for."
Reagan nodded slowly. "And spiritually?"
Eli considered him for a long moment.
"Faith doesn't mean pretending everything's fine," Eli said. "It means choosing love when fear is louder."
Reagan's voice was small. "What if loving people means lying to them?"
Eli didn't dodge it. "Then you ask yourself whether the lie protects them—or protects you."
Reagan absorbed that. Filed it away like something that would come back later.
"Thanks," Reagan said. "I just… wanted to know what side I was on."
Eli smiled faintly. "You're on the side that keeps people human."
Reagan left.
Eli sat there long after, wishing the answer had been easier.
Grace — CDC Secure Wing (Late Night)Grace stood in front of Candace Jenner's desk with her arms folded tight enough to bruise.
"You can't bury this," Grace said. No hedging. No softness. "There are patterns. States. Clusters. This isn't isolated."
Candace didn't look up from her screen. "We're not burying it."
"You're suffocating it."
Candace finally met her eyes. "Grace. Look around you."
Grace did. Guards. Locks. Cameras.
"This building exists to manage information," Candace said calmly. "Not to release it."
Grace's voice shook. "People deserve to know."
Candace leaned back, studying her like a mentor who hated the lesson she was about to give.
"You want to know the difference between ethics and survival?" Candace asked.
Grace didn't answer.
"Ethics asks what should be done," Candace said. "Survival asks what can be done without getting everyone killed."
Grace's jaw tightened. "So we just let it spread?"
"No," Candace said. "We let understanding spread first."
Grace slammed a folder down. "Then explain this."
Candace scanned it—and for the first time, her composure cracked.
Multiple maps. Different colors. Different states.
Texas. Georgia. Virginia. Alabama. Oregon. California.
Same annotation.
Post-mortem motor activity observed.
Candace went very still.
"How many?" Grace asked quietly.
Candace didn't answer at first.
Then, softer: "Enough."
Grace felt cold settle into her bones.
"This is bigger than Atlanta," Grace said.
Candace's voice dropped. "And that's why you need to stop pushing."
Grace met her gaze. "Or what?"
Candace's eyes held something like fear. "Or you stop breathing."
The room hummed with machines pretending to be neutral.
Grace stepped back.
Not in surrender.
In understanding.
Eli — Night (Garage, Alone)Eli stood in the garage with the door half-open, Florida air heavy and buzzing.
He taped a new index card to the inside of a cabinet door. Not a plan.
A rule.
LINE WE DON'T CROSS:
We don't abandon kids.
We don't turn people into expendable assets.
We don't lie for comfort—only for protection.
And when protection fails… we tell the truth fast.
He stared at it.
Then added one more line, after a long pause.
If the system asks us to choose itself over people… we choose people.
He closed the cabinet.
Inside the house, Grayson laughed in his sleep.
Eli leaned his head back against the wall and whispered, to no one:
"God help us when these lines get tested."
Grace sat alone in a secure lab, staring at a map that no longer fit on one screen.
Same anomaly.
Different states.
Same denial language.
And for the first time, she understood the truth beneath the protocols:
This wasn't about stopping something.
It was about deciding who gets warned first.