![]() "For a second dose." "But that's not, that's not how it-" I looked down and saw the last of a second shot of the brown liquid going into my upper arm. He gave me the shot and said, "Other sleeve please." "What?" I asked. “Doesn't this stuff need to be stored, uh, you know, frozen?" "Don't worry," he said, "We thawed it out just this morning." He rubbed his hand along the side of the vessel, "Still cold." I felt the side of the tank and it was indeed cold. Moderna SarsCoV2 was handwritten on it in bad handwriting. I looked closer at the vessel and it had a white label. “Is that-?” "Oh, we got it in bulk," he said. I grew more uncomfortable as he used his teeth to decap a new syringe then draw a few milliliters of the brown liquid out of the shot glass. Actually, it kind of looked like a cafeteria lemonade dispenser. He drew a syrupy brown fluid from a small spigot attached to a sort of hopper. The man grabbed a tiny glass from the counter. But when my turn came, something struck me as odd. He had them sit down one at a time, sign a form. As it was nearing my turn, I entered the room where a middle aged man in dark blue scrubs was giving people the shots. I was waiting in a line of people at a nondescript clinic hallway, sort of socially distanced, but not really, maybe a few feet at most. Now I've already recovered from COVID, but a few nights ago I had this dream. Thank you for consulting the audio before quoting in print. Our transcripts are produced using both speech recognition software and human copy editors, and may not be 100% accurate. We encourage you to listen to the episode if at all possible. The audio contains emotion, emphasis, and soundscapes that are not easily transcribed. Note: The Nocturnists is created primarily as a listening experience. The Nocturnists: Stories from a Pandemic: Part II ![]()
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