Most of the expedition team, including Juan Pablo, Carlos, and Diego (and Camila) were eating breakfast at command central.

A dull pain coursed through my knees and ankles as I approached. But it wasn’t just my legs. My arms, shoulders, and back were sore too. Six days of hiking had done a number on my body. I guess I wasn’t in as good a shape as I thought.

I finally made it to the tent, and someone said, “Looks like someone had a little too much fun last night.”

I squinted.

It was Nathan Buxton.

The author?

Or was he an archaeologist?

Or was he a dentist?

I said, “I guess so.”

“You want some coffee?”

The last thing I wanted was something hot. “I’m going to pass. Where’s Holland?”

“He’s right over—”

I didn’t hear the rest of his reply. I stumbled from beneath the tent, fell to my knees, and vomited. As I dry-heaved several times, I could hear voices behind me.

“Thomas.” It took me a moment to realize it was Diego’s voice. “You not okay, Thomas.”

“I’m fine, I just—” I dry heaved again.

When I finished, I rolled over onto my back.

I felt a hand on my forehead. “Holy shit, he’s burning up.”

Another hand felt around my throat. “His glands are really swollen.”

A moment later, a cold rag was placed over my eyes and forehead. The voices faded in and out.

“Get Holland over here!”

“Open his shirt.”

“He has the rash.”

“Get it farther under his tongue.”

“Holy shit! One hundred and three point three!”

“He’s got dengue.”

≈

I’ve never been good with the flu. There’s just something about an army of microscopic invaders attacking my body that freaks me out. The year H1N1 came around, I got it. I was living in Philadelphia with Lacy at the time, and she was forced to take care of me. After three days of palliative care, her patience was fried, and she said, “Serial killers, no problem. Broken ankle, doesn’t go to the hospital for three days. But a little flu bug, and all of a sudden he’s dying!”

According to Holland, dengue fever—the virus I had almost certainly contracted from one of many mosquitoes that had feasted on my delicious blood—ate H1N1 for breakfast.

Every bone in my body screamed. It felt like two giants were using me as a wishbone. It felt like someone had set off an M-80 behind my eyes. My head pounded like my temples were trying to switch places with each other. And it was just so damn hot.

They moved me to one of the two white tents. I was on the ground. My shirt was open, and several emergency ice packs were put on my chest and stomach. Even with the ice packs, I felt like I was lying on the asphalt in Phoenix in July.