The “Death Cough,” as the villagers called it, stoked fear in the small community of just over eighty. Eleven confirmed cases. Three fatal. Two of those, small children. With the combination of antibiotics and vaccinations, within a few months they had quelled the outbreak. Gina remained in Tibióno for two years, playing host to several other doctors and researchers. Living in a thatched hut among the villagers, Gina came to love the people, the pace of living, even the seclusion. Though most of the villagers spoke Spanish, several of the older residents spoke only their native Tibióno. Gina learned the language, their culture; she was treated as a member of the community. She could have stayed there forever, but then the satellite phone call came. Paul Garret, her ex-lover and now White House press secretary, had tracked her down. And he needed a favor.

That’s how she found herself traveling to South Africa. Ultimately, the trip nearly cost Gina her life, but there was one silver lining.

Thomas.

She hadn’t planned on falling for him; in fact, she found him quite aggravating at first. But she fell, and she fell hard. She moved to Seattle and found a job at a small health clinic. It was a whirlwind romance, and she was about to move into his house overlooking Puget Sound when the WHO contacted her. There had been another outbreak of tuberculosis in the Tibióno village.

Gina was forced to choose between Thomas and the villagers. In the end, she chose the villagers. That had been two years earlier.

Gina eased into the second half of her run. The trail ran even with the river for half a mile, the waking sun shimmering off the moving water. Ten minutes later Gina passed a large fern she’d decided long ago was her finish line and slowed.

As Tibióno’s thatched huts came into view, Gina could tell something was off. There had been several villagers eating breakfast when she left on her run, but now there was no one in sight. In a climate where the heat would rapidly intensify all day long, until at its peak it was nearly unbearable, the temperate hours of the morning were usually the busiest of the day.

Where was Dominga? She was almost always kicking her soccer ball around at this time of day.

As Gina neared the first hut, a man stepped out. He was tall, dark-skinned, wearing military fatigues, and he held an automatic rifle. It was pointed at Gina’s chest.

“¿Médica?” he shouted.

Over his shoulder Gina could see the rest of the villagers huddled between two of the huts. Two more men—two more soldiers—had their guns pointed at the group.

Gina nodded lightly. “Sí.”