After thirty seconds, the darkening of the man’s pants subsided. Gina pulled on a pair of latex gloves and unbuttoned the man’s belt and pants. She wrinkled her nose. The urine of a properly hydrated person doesn’t carry much of a scent, but in someone who is dehydrated, it becomes more concentrated and smells strongly of ammonia.

Gina pulled off the man’s pants. He was wearing white briefs, now stained a wet yellow. She slipped the man’s briefs down, revealing his salt-and-pepper pubic hair. She carried the pants and briefs to the front of the tent, unzipped the flap, and set them on the ground. She would rinse and hang them out to dry once she’d cleaned up her patient.

She found a washcloth and dampened it with water. She cleaned the man’s privates, then wiped between his thighs, and down his legs. While Gina had the rag out, she decided to clean the man’s upper body as well. After however many days in the jungle heat, he stank.

She knelt behind him, propping him up, then shimmied his shirt up and over his head. His back was old-person flabby, with the occasional patch of gray hair.

Gina was surprised to see that he had two tattoos, one near each shoulder blade.

Both were the blurry green of tattoos done before the science had been perfected. The one near his left shoulder blade read “Fortune and Glory, kid. Fortune and Glory.” Underneath the words was what most people might think was a snake or a squiggly line, but anyone who got the reference, as Gina did, would know it was a whip.

“Indiana Jones,” she said.

She couldn’t help but think about Thomas. The only DVDs he owned were the first three Indiana Jones movies. After watching each multiple times, Gina had finally forced him to get Netflix, which Thomas then used to watch an Indiana Jones marathon.

She chuckled at the memory. He was so dumb.

God, she missed him. She tried to convince herself that she didn’t. That leaving him and returning to Bolivia had been the right choice. The villagers in Tibióno needed her. But did they really? Was there anything Gina did that another doctor—pretty much any other WHO doctor—couldn’t have done?

Maybe she had fled Thomas because she was scared. Scared by how hard she’d fallen. Even harder than she’d fallen for Paul. She didn’t know if she could handle another painful ending.

So she’d bailed.

Left him.

She knew that if Thomas had gotten her message, he’d be on his way to Bolivia. He might act like a twelve-year-old half the time, but he was as reliable and clever as they came. He might be fifty miles from her village by now.