Guilt suffused him and he felt a pang of shame. His wife and daughter were in distress and all he could think about was banging a woman he didn’t even remotely like. This was a reminder of the man he used to be, when sex was frivolous, meaningless, and a stroke for the fragile ego. The fact that he was still desirable to certain women was flattering, but he was never going to be unfaithful to Del. He knew of the silent suffering she endured when he was away, and although Alba was not an unruly child, he knew that Del struggled with herself, her feelings of inadequacy refuting instinct, on occasion. Del needed constant reassurance, and his absence was undesired, but he had no choice. Meetings had to be held, contracts had to be negotiated, renegotiated and signed and then his work began. He was the architect of new beginnings in countries that did not have the expertise that he had. There was pride in his work, pride in the firm handshakes with the ministers and executives he met, and a promise to deliver. He was a man of his word, and he would not fail.

Omar got off the plane and checked his phone. The SMS read: High fever. Taking her to emergency at Pantai Hospital. Meet me there. Hurry!

He replied: On the way. Kiss.

As the taxi sped off, Omar leaned back on the cool seat and sighed. He knew the kind of panic Del would be in and hoped that the fever was not a sign of anything serious.

When he arrived at the hospital, he called Del, who picked up after the first ring.

“I’m in one of the wards, just ask the nurse at the counter.” She sounded harassed.

Omar pulled his suitcase behind him, walked through the hospital to the Emergency ward and spoke to a young nurse behind the counter.

“My daughter Alba has just come in. Do you know which room she is in?” he asked curtly.

“The little girl?” she replied. “This way, sir.”

Omar followed the nurse, who could not have been more than 22 years old. He followed her into a ward, walked towards a bed covered by a blue curtain and pulled it apart. Del, seated in a chair, got up and flung herself at Omar.

“Thank god you’re here,” she cried, hugging him tightly, visibly shaken.

Alba was asleep, her eyelids fluttering. He felt fearful, seeing his daughter lying there, like that.

“What did the doctor say?”

“It could be bacterial or viral. They don’t know yet. But they’ve given her a suppository to bring the fever down.”

Omar hated the stench of hospitals, ever since his Tok had died. Her medically induced coma meant daily visits, a terrified, yet distant father, crying relatives and hushed, sometimes heated discussions with doctors and nurses. The smell had never left him.