“‘We need to understand what’s coming out of the ice as it melts,’ Dave said. ‘Most of what we’re finding poses no threat to anything but amoeba, but that one percent of uncertainty is why I’m out here. The more we know about these pathogens, the better we’ll be able to defend against them in the unlikely event they become a problem.’”

The situational irony of this moment is that while Dave is dismissive of the danger of such a pathogen, the narrative establishes that a virus will spread. The premise of the rest of the novel is outlined, and Dave’s overall dismissiveness is an extension of hubris that is quickly eliminated.

“I walk the mile to the crater’s edge. I imagine the virus and anything else the ice has kept hidden from us being sucked into the figurine, its stone belly filled with all that can harm us. I tell my daughter I love her and throw the dogū into the crater, waiting for all that has been unburied to be retaken into the earth. I walk back to the outpost. I can barely breathe.”

Cliff engages in a ceremonial act of cleansing, out of options and desperate to do something. Although the symptoms of the virus are still ambiguous, his inability to breathe foreshadows his eventual status as one of the plague’s first victims.

“‘Thank you for giving us a way to say goodbye. We didn’t want him to die in some hospital overflow center,’ the father said, pulling me close, whispering in one of my giant mouse ears. ‘I know you’re just doing your job, but you gave us one more day with our boy.’”

This moment is meant to be as jarring as it is heartbreaking. Skip is dressed in a mascot costume, adding an element of the absurd as he escorts children to the ends of their lives. However, the absurdity also adds levity to one of the most difficult decisions a parent can make, showing the importance of his work. This tender moment breaks the facade of the theme park through an acknowledgment of grief in an otherwise “happy” place.