It’s nice spending so much more time with Mum. I never liked my stepdad that much. Don’t worry, my mum won’t read this. She wouldn’t know what a blog was if it came up and introduced itself. She even hugs me now and everything. I’ve convinced her. She sees it now. I’m immune.
November 7, 2026
I think I’ve got it. I don’t know how this happened. I just got a call from the hospital. They told me Mum’s been admitted to the hospital with lung disease. I didn’t even know she was sick, she seemed fine. They said I should come and visit her. I asked the woman if that would be okay and she went yeah, yeah, you’re immune, right? But I’ve not felt right since last night. I thought it might just be a cold or something but I feel like I’ve got the worst flu in the world. I’m shaking. My heart’s hammering in my chest. One minute I’m boiling and the next I’m so cold I can literally put my back to the radiator and feel it burning my skin but I’m still cold. I’m going to rest now. It’s getting harder to type. Can someone go to the hospital in Romford please? My mum’s name is Michelle Ahern. She’s on the High Dependency Unit in Ward 7. Someone go and tell her I love her please.
After that the blog went dark. The idea of this man has been weighing on me. This man who, by the sounds of it, died all alone. His mum in the hospital, no siblings or friends that he mentions, just slipping away in the dark with a plea for someone to tell his mother that she’s loved.
It was surprisingly easy to find the records about who he was. I found the death records for November 2026 in the area around Romford General. Sure enough, Michelle Ahern died from advanced lung failure on November 9, 2026. She had no next of kin listed.
I found her address through the electoral register and then managed to ask around her neighbors and find out Daniel’s address. I lied and told them I was an ex-girlfriend who wanted to see the place he died, which was ethically dubious but earned me his address, a comforting smile and a slice of lemon drizzle cake “for the road.” If someone came to my door and asked for the address of their ex-boyfriend, I’d call the police, but maybe people are nicer in Essex than in Crystal Palace.
And that’s how I’ve ended up here, outside Daniel’s block of flats. I thought about trying the ex-girlfriend shtick again but I don’t think the residents of Islington will go for it. I ring the buzzer for the flat next to Daniel’s and tell the woman who answered that I’m looking for Daniel.
“Oh, love, he’s dead.”
“Oh no, I didn’t realize.”
She pauses. “I mean, it can’t be much of a surprise now, can it.”
“Is there someone living in his flat now?”
“No, there’s—look, just come up. I’m not going to have a full conversation over the intercom.”
The woman, Poppy, takes one look at me and relaxes. I’ve been told before I look unthreatening. It’s a useful trait for an anthropologist.
“Come in,” she says and gestures to the sofa. “Cup of peach squash?”
“I’d love one.” I can’t stand peach but Genevieve didn’t raise me to be rude and the more you say yes, the more people tend to tell you.
“So Daniel died in November 2026?”
“Yeah, he lasted ages. I remember seeing him a few times. For months he would dart out and go to the corner shop and come back with sweets like a kid looking all furtive. Then he got more confident. He’d go out all day.”
“I read his blog. He sounded sure he was immune.”
Poppy sighs. “Daniel was a cocky shit. RIP and everything, yeah, but he thought he was the bee’s knees. Of course, he went back to normal thinking he was immune. Idiot.”
“What happened when he died?”