The next morning, an ENTRY PROTOCOL appeared on the inside of the front door: spray sanitizer, shoes, bag, shower. Printed steps, boxes to tick. “It keeps the outside outside,” he said, affectionate but unyielding. Evelyn held the paper, smiling because he was smiling, feeling the first, faint ache of a process queue.
The ENTRY PROTOCOL became a laminated sheet by the door, pen on a string like a voting booth. She memorized the steps: Spray, shoes, bag, shower. Boxes to tick, even if she only stepped out for mail. “It keeps the outside outside,” he said again, kissing the air near her forehead, but never quite landing.