“Drink. It’s the only thing for it.”

Desmond hesitated, then took the bottle and sipped from it. The liquid was like fire on the back of his throat, burning at first, then numbing as it went down. Despite the wretched taste, he felt warmer. And less pain. A second later, he took another sip of the whiskey.

The memory faded, leaving the taste of liquor in his mouth.

Lying in the flat in Berlin, freezing, Desmond realized exactly what he wanted at that moment: a tall bottle of whiskey. He imagined himself leaving the flat, descending the stairs, and buying the bottle. He imagined the first drink hitting his lips, how warm he’d feel then, how much more relaxed he’d be, how much better he’d sleep, how much better things would go tomorrow.

But just as he was about to rise from the bed, his mind reminded him of something: drinking was something he didn’t do anymore. And he also recalled why: drinking had already taken too much from him. Though he couldn’t specifically remember it, he knew that years ago he had made a promise to himself not to let alcohol take anything else from him.

Desmond knew then that he was the kind of person who kept his promises, especially the ones he made to himself. He wouldn’t seek warmth in a bottle that night—or any other night. He would bear the cold, and the pain in his body, and the painful memories in his mind. He would bear them all alone. He had done it before.

Day 2

900 Infected
13 Dead

Chapter 13

After his morning ritual, Dr. Elim Kibet donned an impermeable gown, boot covers, a facemask, goggles, and two pairs of gloves. As he walked the corridor, he barely recognized the sleepy, rural hospital. It was bustling with activity now. Everyone who had stayed was pitching in.

He opened a door and greeted his patient, the American named Lucas Turner. The young man had broken with the disease during the night. Despite his discomfort and ill health, Lucas was extremely polite. Elim knew the smell of chlorine emanating from his suit was overpowering to his patient, yet Lucas did not complain. He took the bottle of ORS Elim handed him and drank some, wincing as he swallowed.

“I know,” Elim said. “It’s bad. But it will keep you alive.”

Lucas only nodded.

“I’ve sent another request for help. I’m optimistic that someone will come soon.”

Lucas’s cheeks were flushed, and red rings had begun forming around his eyes. He spoke with a scratchy voice. “I was wondering if you would send an email to my parents. My phone’s dead.” He took a sheet of paper off the side table and held it up. It contained an email address and a short, handwritten message.

Elim reached for it, but Lucas drew it back.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to, like, put it in a plastic bag or… take a cell phone picture of it or something.”