Her toe caught on a nail jutting out of the stage. She stumbled, warm blood seeping into her ballet flat. Straight-faced, she continued to dance until the final note rang out. The tasteless melody mixed with the scent of the stale but extravagant feast that the audience had yet to touch. Steaks, cheeses, cake, and wine taunted her. The curtain fell. She and the other dancers shuffled off stage. 

“Sit.” 

Leona sat on the cold stool backstage. A nurse proceeded to give her a brief check-up, examining the back of her throat, her nostrils, the insides of her ears. At last, the nurse briskly said, “You’re clean,” and ushered the next dancer into the chair. 

“What about my foot?” Leona protested, gesturing to the small blood stain. 

“Have your housemaster fetch you a bandage,” the nurse replied without removing his eyes from the new patient. 

When Leona limped out of the room, a firm, meaty hand grasped her forearm. “You danced pretty tonight,” her housemaster told her through a cloud of smoke. Leona coughed in reply, and he chuckled at her. Smoking couldn’t harm him, his lungs insusceptible to disease. 

“Cillian,” she started as he guided her homeward, “I can’t walk tonight. I’ll need something for my foot.” 

Cillian looked down at her, only just noticing the blood. “We can take the car tonight. I’ll put in a call for some antiseptic tomorrow.” 

Leona knew that he cared for her, but pity overshadowed any genuine affection. She felt like little more than a family pet to him. Regardless, she was grateful that he offered to buy the antiseptic. It was useless to any of the Edited, who were immune to all diseases. Even their wounds healed faster. With their immunity, sanitation was one of the first luxuries to go. There was no use in spending money on excessive cleanliness when they no longer risked infection or contagion. Wealthier men like Cillian—housemasters—took in Unedited people like her, who struggled to find work or housing elsewhere. Though only the kindest housemasters bothered to attend to their tenants’ medical needs. 

After wrapping her foot back at the house, Leona joined her younger sister, Deja, for dinner. Cillian never dined with them. “I’m sorry,” Deja told Leona after watching her struggle to stomach the fish she’d prepared. “The market wouldn’t sell me any ham today. I heard her tell the lady in front of me there was some sort of … epidemic or something. It’s wiped out the cattle. They ran out of beef. They would only sell me fish since I wasn’t with Cillian. Only sold ham to the Edited.” 

“What do you mean an epidemic? Was it like what’s been going on in the city?”

The city had recently seen a plague that had taken two of their cousins. Only a few of the Unedited, those who could still afford healthcare, managed without getting sick. But it was rare that diseases fell to cattle. Most livestock was Edited these days. 

“I dunno. The woman working hardly even looked at me when I tried to ask.” That wasn’t uncommon. 

“Do you think the outbreak will spread down here?” Deja asked timidly. 

“Some of the dancers have been refusing to leave their houses. I don’t know how they’ll get by if their housemasters kick them out for it.” 

Deja shuddered. She knew if either of them fell ill, Leona’s dancing hardly made enough to visit a doctor, let alone afford medicine. Cillian would never pay for it either. If he wanted another maid like Deja or another girl to watch dance, he could find them anywhere. Most wouldn’t even ask for an allowance. He wasn’t foolish enough to front medical bills just to keep a familiar face. Not when the cattle epidemic may very well hurt him, too. Genetic editing cured many things: cancer, dementia, heart disease. But it couldn’t fight starvation. 

As the weeks wore on, Leona and Deja became more aware of that with every pound they watched Cillian drop. It’d been three weeks since the stores ran out of beef. Not long after, all Unedited were banned from purchasing meat. The remaining supply of pork and poultry was dwindling quickly. Leona had been getting terrible headaches. Some days, she couldn’t even get out of bed. When she finally did, she realized she could count her ribs through her dress. 

Cillian was more irritable than ever. He hardly spoke, and when he did, it was to threaten to kick Leona out for never leaving bed. She knew as well as he did that he’d soon struggle to afford to feed her, even if part of him enjoyed her company. Hunger was breaking him. 

One night, Leona awoke, arching her back in a cold sweat. Deja was already scrambling to grab her a cold washcloth. Leona coughed and groaned. Cillian barged in at the noise. Deja quickly turned to him. “I’m so sorry. She’s sick. I’ll take care of her. You don’t have to worry.” 

Still, he stooped down to Leona’s bedside. “Fever,” he said with his hand against her forehead. 

“We don’t need a doctor,” said Deja, urging Leona to drink some water. After a sip, she vomited in front of herself. 

Cillian gagged. “She’s not staying here.” 

“Please,” Deja rasped.

He hesitated a moment. “I’ll take her to the doctor myself. I can’t offer anything more than that.” 

Standing outside the hospital, Cillian took a long drag from a cigarette. It was tetanus. He was sure of it. He just wasn’t sure if he had the strength for what was next. He wasn’t sure he could handle it if the rumors his friends from the city had whispered about were true. After what could have been seconds or hours, a doctor joined him outside. “She’s going to die,” the doctor told him. “We could save her, but you know it’d be pointless.” 

“Pointless?” Cillian asked.

“Wasteful.” 

Cillian took another drag. “The Unedited who died in the city a few months ago. The plague. Was that part of…?” He trailed off. 

“We can’t save everyone. Letting her die like this is wasteful. If we cure her, it won’t be long until she inevitably needs saving again. Good people—healed people—are dying. She could save them. How long do you think you’ll make it on your rations? Not until the end of this year, if you’re still feeding the girl and her sister. You’d be doing her a mercy. Instead of kicking her to the streets, her death would have meaning. They’ll die so we can live.” 

“You’d be butchering her.” 

“It’s progress.” 

Cillian nearly vomited. “At least give me more time to think,” he pleaded. 

“It’s already been done.”