It was officially a pandemic. Peyton wanted to present her theory, but she needed to get all the facts first.

“How could it spread that far so fast? How did GPHIN miss it? How did we miss it?”

“The symptoms aren’t differentiated enough from a cold or flu. When health departments realized that patients who had gotten the flu vaccine were still getting sick, they started tracking it more closely. The intermittent nature of the disease also made it hard to establish a pattern. But we’ve got a sample in the lab, and we’ll have it sequenced soon. Whatever the virus is, we think it must be throwing off a lot of viral escape vectors. It’s pretty tough. The good news is that out of the almost three million known cases, we’ve only seen a few dozen deaths. It’s remarkably non-lethal.”

“Interesting.” Since Thanksgiving was tomorrow, Peyton asked the next logical question: “Is the director considering a travel advisory?”

“He is, but I count it as unlikely. The White House has already come out against it. Better to let a lot of people get the sniffles than kill the economy—that’s the thinking on their end. If the mortality rate was higher, the calculus might be more complicated.”

“Yeah. Figured. Listen, I know this is probably a long shot, but I want to mention it. The Kenyan physician who initially treated the Americans took a detailed history. Both of these guys had flu-like symptoms before they broke with the hemorrhagic fever.”

A long pause, then Elliott said, “You think…”

“I think we should compare the genomes of both viruses to see if they’re related—just to be safe.”

The unspoken implication was that millions around the world were already infected with the deadly virus that was killing so many in Kenya.

Elliott’s voice remained calm. “It’s a good idea. I’ll make it a priority.”

Peyton exhaled and stopped pacing. “Great.”

Curiosity finally overcame her. “How about the kid?”

Elliott’s hesitation gave her the news before he spoke. “I’m really sorry, Peyton. He died in the air a few hours ago.”

The words were a punch in the gut. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had walked into Lucas Turner’s hospital room and promised him she was going to do everything she could for him. She wondered if she had.

“So much for ZMapp,” she said, trying to sound objective but failing to hide the emotion in her voice.

“You did everything you could, Peyton. And you sent us samples to work with. Let us do our part.”

Peyton thought about the young man’s note to his parents, which Dr. Kibet had transcribed in the notebook. Lucas Turner had been brave. And selfless. And too young to die. Dr. Kibet had taken good care of him—the best he could. She hoped Kibet would fare better than Lucas Turner, but she wasn’t optimistic.