With Clara's summer camp application and his own university thesis schedule settled, Tony Snow finally found some time to breathe.
Using this rare downtime, he opened his laptop and searched for someone he'd come across during a previous life simulation: Dr. Ralph Baric, a virologist at the University of North Carolina, who had played a key role in global health research.
Opening Google, Tony typed in "Ralph Baric", and two notable results popped up.
The first article was titled: "American Scientists Reconstruct SARS Virus in Laboratory."
It was an archived piece from 2008, citing a brief press release from a mainstream U.S. science outlet. There wasn't much detail—until the final paragraph caught his eye.
"We are now capable of designing and synthesizing variants of the SARS virus, which marks an important step toward preventing future outbreaks. This allows researchers to test vaccines and therapies on controlled viral models, accelerating development."
Tony's eyes narrowed.
With decades of biology knowledge imprinted in his brain from the life simulator, he understood exactly what this meant. SARS—Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome—was a beta coronavirus, belonging to the Coronaviridae family.
He hadn't expected that as early as 2008, Ralph Baric's team already had the technical means to design and construct synthetic viral variants in a lab.
Tony scrolled on, but the next few articles provided little new information—either locked behind academic paywalls or repeating the same vague points. Most entries on Baric were brief, and a lot of potentially valuable data seemed scrubbed or buried deep.
Frustrated but not defeated, Tony changed strategy. He searched for "University of North Carolina, Virology Lab."
Plenty of search results—mostly promotional, superficial, or redirected. After clicking through a dozen pages with nothing substantial, Tony decided to pause his investigation for now.
It was only 2015.
Once his own company grew and generated income, he could hire private investigators or researchers. Alternatively, he could share what he knew with the right contacts in public health circles. In the life simulation, Tony had only stumbled upon Baric's work after watching one of his virology lectures—and later successfully prevented a national health crisis by acting early.
If he could follow the same path in real life, there was hope.
But for now, he lacked both time and skill for deep surveillance or intelligence gathering. By the time he shut his laptop, it was already 9 p.m.
By the following Friday, Tony's tech startup had been formally registered. He also began applying for his first student entrepreneurship loan. Meanwhile, his patent application for a key software tool had already been approved.
That afternoon, while having lunch with Clara in the university cafeteria, Tony's phone buzzed.
It was a friend request on Messenger—from someone he hadn't thought about in years.
Mr. Joel Winters. His high school homeroom teacher.
Tony accepted, mildly confused. After graduating high school, he'd developed a habit—one he wasn't sure was good or bad—of cutting ties with his past. He rarely messaged former classmates, almost never checked in with teachers, and avoided group chats from his old schools.
In middle school, high school, and even with childhood friends, Tony kept his social world small and quiet.
That's why seeing a message from Mr. Winters genuinely surprised him.
"Hello Tony, this is Mr. Winters, your homeroom teacher from Ridgeway High. Do you still remember me?"
Tony chuckled. Of course he remembered. The name and face were clear in his mind. Mr. Winters had always been a no-nonsense but well-meaning educator. He probably found Tony's current name online somehow—maybe through a news snippet or social media post.
"Of course I remember you, Mr. Winters."
The reply came quickly.
"I've been hearing a lot about your accomplishments lately—very impressive 👏. Are you planning to come home for the May Day weekend?"
Tony raised an eyebrow. It wasn't a random message—he wanted something.
"Is there something you need help with? I might have time depending on the schedule."
Mr. Winters responded without delay.
"It's nothing too big. With the college entrance exams coming up, I thought… if you're in town for the holiday, maybe you'd be willing to stop by Ridgeway and share your experience with the students. You've been through it, and your recent achievements have been inspiring. I've even told my current students about you."
Tony knew the drill.
Each year, some college freshmen were encouraged to return to their high school alma maters during breaks to promote their universities or share tips. It wasn't mandatory, but completing the visit could add soft points to a student's record or résumé.
Tony had sat through several of those talks as a student—but during his early years in college, when he was still coasting and disengaged, he never thought about giving one.
Now, he figured Mr. Winters must've heard about his math paper and thought it'd be inspiring for the next batch of seniors.
Tony was tempted to say no—he wasn't fond of speaking in front of people—but then again, it had been over two years since he'd set foot in his old high school.
"Do students even have class during May Day? Would there be anyone around?"
He wasn't trying to back out—he just didn't want to waste time giving a speech to an empty classroom.
"If you're willing to come, I promise they'll be there," Mr. Winters replied.
That was the kind of teacher he was. Firm, sincere, and able to make things happen.
Tony thought for a moment longer and then sent one more message.
"I remember students have evening study hours on the third, right? I'll come then. That way I won't take up their break time."
It was the perfect compromise.
He didn't want to interrupt the students' well-earned holiday, but if he could speak during a regular evening study session, they'd be present—and it wouldn't feel like a chore to anyone.
He knew how they thought. He had once been in their shoes.
Students resented having their free time taken. But if a talk happened during a normal study block—especially if it meant fewer math problems to solve—they'd welcome it with open arms.