He had met her six months ago during EIS orientation. At first, he had thought she was neurotic and uptight. But as he’d gotten to know her, he’d realized the truth: she cared. Being prepared and doing a good job were important to her. She had a kind heart, and it had led her to medicine. She cared about patients like he cared about animals. He had suggested they bunk together in camp during the deployment, to compare notes from the medical and veterinary side of the investigation. Who knows, he had added, in our off-hours we could find the breakthrough to stop the pandemic. But he had been hoping for a different kind of breakthrough.

When the food was gone, he drew out his phone. The Audible app appeared with The Nightingale’s book cover, ready to resume the story where he and Hannah had left off. He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off the waiting and worrying. He wanted to press play, to listen to the story as he drifted off to sleep, but he decided what he wanted even more was to finish it with Hannah, when she returned, safe and unharmed.

He set the phone down and closed his eyes. Dr. Shaw was right: thinking was the enemy of sleep.

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Elim Kibet drifted in and out of consciousness. Day turned into night and back again, like a light being flipped on and off. The fever flowed like the tide, surging, overwhelming him, roasting his body from the inside, then withdrawing, leaving him to think it would never return.

His symptoms grew worse each day. He found it harder to think. His hope of recovery faded. Dread took its place. Only when he had lost that last bit of hope did he realize how much he had truly held on to.

The bonfire outside his window grew larger each night. At first they tossed only the suits and contaminated material onto the blaze. Then came the bodies.

And then the night arrived when no fire was lit—and Elim knew that he was not the only one in danger. The entire place was in trouble. He waited for the news he knew would come soon.

The door opened, and Nia Okeke entered once again. The official with the Kenyan Ministry of Health had given him ZMapp and insisted he take the room the American had stayed in. Now she wheeled in a cart piled high with bottles of ORS, clean buckets for bodily fluids, and boxes of antibiotics and painkillers. She parked the cart within his reach and sat on the bed, just beside his chest.

“We’re leaving, Elim.”

“You can’t.”

“We must.”

He looked down, his fever-ridden mind searching for an argument to keep them here for the sake of his patients.

She seemed to read his mind. “There’s nothing you can say. There simply aren’t enough patients left here.”

“How many?”