“If we do, I haven’t heard anything. I know the CDC epidemiologists went through the lab and particularly the level-three containment area where the salmonella strain was kept. I think their initial concerns were about a malfunction of the hood, but apparently it was working fine. There was some bacteria in the hood itself, but you’d expect that. They took cultures, I know, and we’ll get results in twenty-four hours. I’m hearing all this secondhand. My job is to look after them.”

“Of course,” said Pia. “Has the CDC finished with the lab?”

“Dr. Springer said an hour ago that most of them were already headed back to Atlanta.”

Dr. De Silva’s cell phone beeped, and she glanced at a text message. “Oops, gotta go! Nice talking with you.”

“Can we see Dr. Rothman?”

“I don’t see any harm, but you’re not going to be seeing much,” Dr. De Silva said, already walking away. “As I said, he’s delirious. If you do go in, just make sure you put on all the gear and don’t bring anything out!”

Eagerly Pia set off toward Rothman’s room. George stumbled after her.

“What are you doing?” George complained. “You can’t go in there. He’s sick, he can’t tell you anything. Why take a chance?”

Pia didn’t answer. She suited up as per the Universal Precautions established by the CDC, which were posted on the outer door. George continued to try to talk Pia out of the visit, but she ignored him. He found a set of protective gear for himself and followed Pia into the room. As they passed through the door they could feel air entering with them.

Pia walked directly over to the bed. Several IVs were running, each laced with antibiotic.

“Dr. Rothman? . . . Dr. Rothman?”

Rothman stirred and half opened his eyes.

“Dr. Rothman, can you hear me?”

“What are you doing?” George’s nerve was failing him on many counts. Neither of them was on an internal medicine rotation, so they had no business or excuse to be there, and why was Pia trying to talk to Dr. Rothman? The man was delirious. Apart from the trouble they could get into, George was nervous about the salmonella that was making Dr. Rothman sick. The man looked gravely ill, with an ashen coloring and loose strands of hair matted to his pale forehead.

“He doesn’t look good at all,” Pia commented.

“Tell me about it,” George said nervously.

“My gosh, look! He’s losing some hair.” Pia pointed to tufts of hair on Rothman’s pillow, but George wasn’t interested. Rothman had become agitated now, twisting against his restraints while mouthing some words. Pia grabbed his chart and was flipping through the pages.

“His temperature’s up—not a lot, but up nonetheless.”

“Pia . . . let’s go!” George stage-whispered.