The librarian was sensible and did not open the envelope, but e-mailed other librarians to ask if they knew whether the virus would be viable after a century. The internet is astounding. That message was passed on, and in the morning, the librarian had the CDC and the FBI on her doorstop to collect the envelope, take the scabs and have them tested for viability.

Part of being a writer is just staying alert. I’ve always been puzzled that while everybody in America has seen missing child posters, nobody but me thought of writing a book where the kid recognizes herself (Face on the Milk Carton). The smallpox incident demanded to become an action adventure. Right away I thought, “what if the person to find that envelope is a sixteen-year-old boy?” Perhaps a boy rather like my own, doing a biology research paper in which he has no interest, and which he hopes will write itself, so he doesn’t have to do anything. Were this boy to stumble on smallpox scabs, first of all he wouldn’t have the faintest idea what smallpox is, or that it has scabs. Second, he’d open the envelope, pour the contents into his hand, sniff it, break it up. Possibly, knowing my son, taste it. He would not wash his hands when he was done.

In his desire to write his paper quickly and easily, perhaps he will go on line and ask for help, because why labor on homework if you can get somebody to do some of it for you? And perhaps on line he will state that he just came into possession of smallpox scabs—doesn’t know if the virus is still alive—who out there can help him?

Everybody is on the internet. Good guys and bad guys. And what if this smallpox scab is viable, and could bring back this ghastly disease? And what if it’s set in New York City, where you would be on the subway and the bus and the sidewalk, and launch the infection of eight million people?

This book became Code Orange.