By Julie Moulin

It all started because of a pimple on the back of her neck.

She would scratch her scalp frenetically – in bed at night, on the bus, at school – so much that her teacher sent an e-mail to her parents. Her parents, who had other things in mind at that time, hadn't noticed anything unusual about her daughter's head. This message drew a sight from them. As if they did not already have enough to worry about.

The mother got to work. Whilst scrolling through the local news on her phone – no one had been allowed to leave the island for months – she clipped a towel around her daughter's neck with a clothespin. The island's surface area was that of a city. They felt like they were swimming in circles. But when it came to finding the right repellent, no stores had any stock.

They ordered it online from overseas. They bought enough to stock up. Bad news fell as dry hairs in this tropical, humid climate. They had learned to expect the worst. The mother applied the oil, strand by strand. The girl endured it in silence. Her mother placed a bouffant cap over her head. Now, they just had to wait. The government said that new social distancing measures would be announced later in the day. Shower. Comb. The mother found a gigantic louse on her daughter's scalp. Then a family. A whole district. An entire nation had made itself at home here. The school would never take her daughter back in this state.

The child started to cry. Her mother tried to comfort her: it would last one week, not more. She would comb her hair every day with dedication, care and love. The mother gathered her daughter's stuffed animals, and sealed them in an opaque, airtight bag that she hid in the bomb shelter. She put her daughter's comfort blanket in the freezer. And began washing all the bedding and towels. The rest of the family shampooed their hair. Concomitantly, a neighbour sent a WhatsApp message: home schooling from Monday. See, the mother said, you're lucky, no one will know you have lice. School is closed. It turned out that the whole family was infested.

It was a plague. They thought it would not last long, which did not happen. The fight just started. The parasites had clearly been feasting on them for months. They had proliferated, burrowing between hair follicles. The imported oil suffocated only the weakest. The largest lice continued to reproduce. It's disgusting, said the teenage sister. I am not a brothel. There's no vaccine yet? asked the eldest. I have exams at the end of the year. At dinner, they counted the number of lice they had killed, while reading statistics about deaths from this new virus, just as vindicative as their own parasites. The virus infiltrated respiratory cells and multiplied, killing millions of people.

Hearing her mother's cries, the child wondered what irritated her the most: the lice, the virus or the confined environment where the five of them lived. The child wanted to escape. She begged her mother to let her meet her friends outside. She pleaded so much that her mother finally relented, making her wear a mask over her nose and a bouffant cap on her head. Shame won't kill you, she said, which the child doubted. But she would rather face it than inhale the stale air polluted by her mother's anguish. She put on sunglasses to avoid being recognized and stepped outside.

They eventually got rid of lice. School reopened. People were allowed to gather in groups of five. At restaurant, families could eat at the same table again, as if they had been dining in separate rooms at home before. Vaccine rolled out. The mother began to relax. The father returned to the office. Occasionally, they still washed their hair with the imported oil, just in case, making jokes of the past afflictions. Out of caution, one continued to check the news. But one day, the government declared that deaths were within an acceptable range. The family stopped talking about the virus, just as they had stopped talking about the lice. Yet some parents continued campaigning for mandatory bouffant caps at school. They began sewing fabric caps. The mother stocked up on them. Just in case.

When the child noticed pimples on her legs, she decided to stay silent. But alas! the school nurse dropped a message to her parents. Mosquitoes, said the father, nothing to worry about. Dengue! cried the mother, who was already checking a map of dengue cases on her phone. Their district was marked red. Do you feel weak? she asked. Do you feel any discomfort behind your eyes? Any nausea? It just itches, mum, that's all. The mother made a compulsive purchase of mosquito repellent and sprayed the entire family. Trousers and long-sleeved shirts from now on! she barked, like a colonel leading an army. In your dreams, grumbled the eldest. We're already doing the masks and the bouffant caps, I am not wearing your uniform, the teen rebelled. No water in the toilet brush holders! shouted the mother, entirely consumed by the war effort. She bought an electric insect zapper. Their neighbourhood eventually moved back into a green zone, earning national praise. The mother finally relaxed. The kids shook their heads in disbelief.

Yet despite their honest efforts to live in peace with the virus, the lice and the mosquito bites, the pimples on the child's legs worsened. The itching was so unbearable that she scratched her skin to blood. The wounds became infected. The mother applied disinfectant, muttering confused words about the risk of superinfections in a tropical climate, notwithstanding the ultraviolet stains and tank manoeuvres on the continent. It had been making headlines for a few days. On the continent, a vast country, already too wide for itself, was amassing troops along the borders of a smaller neighbour. Mosquitoes, the father repeated with a sigh.

I am not going to school like this! cried the teen when she woke up one morning with pimples on her thighs. These are not mosquito bites! roared the mother. These are bed bugs! She called a pest control specialist. That same day, the country on the continent invaded its neighbour. The family was forced to leave the apartment for several days. They checked in a hotel. The pest control company had found bugs in every bed and sofa. Most of their furniture had to go. Once again, they washed every piece of clothing, bedding and towels, fabric masks and bouffant caps included. They did not disclose anything to their friends as the mother feared her children would be treated as outcasts.

When can we go back home? the child asked. We will go back, we will, the mother replied, her voice mechanical. It is temporary. They'll quit. They'll leave. It is not real. The mother did not sleep at night, she was busy inspecting every corner, every piece of news, on the look-out of the next tragedy, bracing herself for the next catastrophe. The father suggested she turn off her phone.

The child watched her mother for signs of anxiety. It could take many forms: white hairs, dark circles under her yes, heavy sighs, or the small pimples at the corners of her lips – these were all symptoms of another looming threat. Life had actually returned to normal. They were now allowed to leave the island and go on holidays; they went to visit relatives on the continent; masks and bouffant caps had been repurposed into tea towels and washable toilet paper; they had bought a new L-shaped sofa that everybody loved, the whole family gathered on it to watch movies on Saturday evenings. Life was easy-going.

And yet, despite this reversal of fate, the mother remained on the alert. The atmosphere was one of constant vigilance. The kids started coughing? Mould had appeared on the walls and inside wardrobes. The kids were sneezing? There were mites now. They disinfected, they cleaned the bedding, the towels, the entire apartment once again. Don't worry, my sweet flea, the mother told her child, I'll get rid of them.

On the continent, the war spiralled further out of control. We're safe, the father reassured them, this island is safe. Fighter jets patrolled the skies above them. Then, the child's grandfather died; and that's, nobody had expected it. The mother lost much of her vindictive energy. Grief fed on her like a parasite at the expense of her body.

One day, the child overheard her parents speaking in hushed tones. I have mites, whispered the mother. What? The father asked. I have skin mites. Microscopic ectoparasites invading the pores of my face. You should see a doctor, the father replied, his voice both low and firm. You're exhausted. You're grieving and you're in pre-menopause. I am serious, the mother insisted. Maybe you have skin mites too, maybe we all do. On my face, they cause inflammation. Watch out, soon it'll happen to you as well. None of us are immune to another disaster.

The child listened with growing horror, recalling how her mother kissed her goodnight. I've stocked up on medicine, the mother continued. We'll get through this. We should not panic. Not yet. The next US elections will be critical. At that point, the child rushed unnoticed into her sister's room. What now? the teen sister barked. What's the best repellent against bad news? the child asked. I can't take this anymore. Tell me about it! the teen snapped, popping a pimple on her chin, a secretion of sebum flying onto the floor. I don't know what's wrong with them. They're going insane.

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