“Let’s see what we can do about camouflage,” he said. “Then get everyone to eat something while we can.”

Chapter
Eight

“Here, Doc, wear this,” Swanson said, holding out a brown T-shirt. He gestured at her white tank top and khaki pants. “You kinda shine through the trees.”

Cynthia looked at it and briefly wondered when the soiled garment had last seen the inside of a washing machine, but then slipped the T-shirt over her head. The hem brushed her knees. “Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t get dressed this morning intending to hide in the jungle.”

He grinned. “I always dress for just that occasion.”

She squatted down next to Sergeant Sanders. He had good color despite the trauma to his body in recent days. He held a metal cup of broth that Sergeant McBride had made out of some bouillon powder. “Are you good here? Do you need to get out of the boat?”

He slowly shook his head. “Sitting perfectly still is the best thing right now. I honestly think sitting here feels better than it did lying in the bed.”

She pressed her fingers into his neck and checked his pulse rate. “If you need anything, let me know.”

Lieutenant Osbourne lay with his leg propped up on a rucksack. He had his eyes closed but when she squatted down next to him, he opened them. She did not like the color of his skin. When she touched his neck to check his pulse, his skin felt warm. “Are you good in here, or you need to get out of the boat?”

He looked at her blankly for several seconds as if processing what she asked. “The more still I am, the better I am. The idea of moving right now . . .” He shook his head. “Hopefully, that won’t have to happen anytime soon.”

“What is your pain level?”

“Intense.” Hardly a scale of one to ten, but she appreciated his candor.

“Are you hungry at all?”

“No.” He held up his canteen. She noticed the tremor in his hand. “But I am staying hydrated.”

“I can get you a broth made with bouillon.”

“I just need to stick with water right now.”

She glanced at her watch, calculating the time until she needed to give him more antibiotics. “I can probably give you another dose of morphine.”

He grabbed her wrist, his palm hot and dry. She looked into his eyes. “Please don’t offer again. Let me ask.”

She studied his face and finally nodded. “Okay.”

It helped that her patient knew the extent of his injuries and the care he needed. She could tell from his personality that he had a hard time adjusting to needing help. “We need to get you into a sterile environment and fight off the infection.”

He chuckled. “From your mouth to God’s ears.”