Excerpt from The Things That Keep Us Here by Carla Buckley, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Kate was a mound of blankets in the deep gloom of her bedroom, leaning up against her headboard, waiting for him. “Hey,” she said as he sat heavily on her bed.

He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. “Hey. You ever clean this place?”

“Only when Mom threatens to take away my phone.”

She’d been dabbing on perfume again, its sweetness mingling with the fruity aroma of her shampoo and the mint of her toothpaste. He remembered the days when they had to plead with Kate to take a bath. When she was six, they had to stand over her to get her to brush her teeth.

“How long are you staying?” she asked.

“Maybe a few days. We’ll see.”

She bit her lower lip. “This is really serious, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“People are dying, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anyone who’s died?”

He thought about that, then shook his head. “No one I know of, honey. Certainly no one here.”

“Are we going to die?”

He picked up her stuffed owl, limp with age, its beak hanging on by a few stitches. Where had this come from? He hadn’t seen it in years. She leaned forward, and he settled it behind her head. How his daughter could sleep without a pillow was beyond him, but she never complained of a sore neck. “I know things seem to have happened awfully fast. But scientists and governments have been working on this problem for a long time. We knew this was coming. We just didn’t know when. There are all sorts of plans and procedures in place to protect us.”

“Like closing school?”

“Exactly. Which is a very smart thing to do. If we can keep people from catching it from one another, we can give scientists time to work on a vaccine.”

She made a face. “That means a shot.”

If only it were that simple.

“Just think,” he said, rising. “No school tomorrow. You can IM to your heart’s content.”

“No one IMs anymore, Dad.”

“No?”

“They text.”

“Ah.” These were the things he missed so painfully: the lost tooth, the backpack exchanged for a floppy bag, no more chocolate syrup stirred into milk. These next few days would be an unexpected gift, a chance to reconnect with his daughters. “Well, then you can text to your heart’s content.”

“Right. Tell Mom that.” She yawned and turned over. “Good night, Dad.”

That was another thing: Dad instead of Daddy. Maybe that was the thing he missed the most.

Ann was up when peter came into the kitchen early the next morning. She stood by the coffeemaker, her hand on the pot handle, waiting for the water to stop dripping. She wore her old blue terry robe with the sagging pockets, and her hair was mussed. She wasn’t one for predawn conversation, so he was surprised when she spoke. “Coffee?”

“Please.” He’d missed her coffee. Every pot he brewed was either bitter sludge or tasteless brown water.

“Sleep okay?”

“Fine.”

“Really.” She handed him a mug, the one Kate had painted at a long- ago birthday party, the orange happy face faded now from so many washings. “Beth says that sofa’s a medieval torture device.” Ann’s sister had known what she was talking about. There was a certain pernicious spring that dug into his ribs whenever he turned over. “It’s like the Four Seasons compared to the one in my apartment. Speaking of which, I’m going to head in and grab some clothes.”

She nodded toward the television set playing quietly in the family room. “They’re reporting a few cases in Mexico now.”

Already? He lifted his mug so she couldn’t see his expression. Mexico was close. There were all sorts of migrations between Mexico and the United States, human and otherwise. So the latest modeling studies had been correct: restricting air travel had had little effect on containing the spread of the virus.

Excerpted from The Things That Keep Us Here by Carla Buckley Copyright © 2010 by Carla Buckley. Excerpted by permission of Delacorte Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.