Excerpt from The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I counted myself lucky; I was one of those who'd come through practically unscathed. At the start of September I'd taken to my bed hurting all over, knowing enough about this brutal flu to be rather in a funk, but I'd found myself back on my feet in a matter of days. Colours appeared a bit silvery to me for a few weeks, as if I were looking through smoked glass. Apart from that, I was only a little lowered in spirits, nothing worth making a fuss about.

A delivery boy—matchstick legs in shorts—whizzed past us, raising a peacock's fan of oily water. How slowly this tram was trundling through the sparse traffic—to save electricity, I supposed, or in line with some new bylaw. I'd have been at the hospital already if Matron let us cycle all the way there.

Not that she'd know if I broke her rule; for the past three days she'd been propped up on pillows in a Women's Fever ward, coughing too hard to speak. But it seemed sneaky to do it behind her back.

South of Nelson's Pillar, the brakes ground and squealed, and we came to a halt. I looked back at the charred carapace of the post office, one of half a dozen spots where the rebels had holed up for their six-day Rising. A pointless and perverse exercise. Hadn't Westminster been on the brink of granting home rule for Ireland before the outbreak of world war had postponed the matter? I'd no particular objection to being governed from Dublin rather than London if it could come about by peaceful means. But gunfire in these streets in '16 hadn't brought home rule an inch closer, had it? Only given most of us reason to hate those few who'd shed blood in our names.

Farther down the road, where firms such as the bookshop where I used to buy Tim's comics had been razed by British shellfire during that brief rebellion, there was no sign of any rebuilding yet. Some side streets remained barricaded with felled trees and barbed wire. I supposed concrete, tar, asphalt, and wood were all unaffordable as long as the war lasted.

Delia Garrett, I thought. Ita Noonan.

Don't.

Eileen Devine, the barrow woman. Her flu had turned to pneumonia—all yesterday she'd coughed up greenish-red, and her temperature was a kite jerking up and down.

Stop it, Julia.

I tried not to dwell on my patients between shifts since it wasn't as if I could do a thing for them until I was back on the ward.

On a fence, specifics of a variety concert with CANCELLED stamped diagonally across them; an advertisement for the All-Ireland Hurling Finals, POSTPONED FOR THE DURATION pasted on it. So many shops shuttered now due to staff being laid low by the grippe, and offices with blinds drawn down or regretful notices nailed up. Many of the firms that were still open looked deserted to me, on the verge of failing for lack of custom. Dublin was a great mouth holed with missing teeth.

A waft of eucalyptus. The man to my left on the tram bench was pressing a soaked handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Some wore it on their scarves or coats these days. I used to like the woody fragrance before it came to mean fear. Not that I had any reason to shrink from a stranger's sneeze, being immune now to this season's awful strain of flu; there was a certain relief to having had my dose already.

A man's explosive cough on the bench behind me. Then another. Hack, hack, a tree being axed with too small a blade. The mass of bodies leaned away. That ambiguous sound could be the start of the flu or a convalescent's lingering symptom; it could signify the harmless common cold or be a nervous tic, caught like a yawn just by thinking about it. But at the moment this whole city was inclined to assume the worst, and no wonder.

Three hearses in a row outside an undertaker's, the horses already in harness for the morning's first burials. Two aproned men shouldered a load of pale planks down the lane to the back—for building more coffins, I realised.

Excerpted from The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue. Copyright © 2020 by Emma Donoghue. Excerpted by permission of Little Brown & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.