Outside the hospital, Peyton, Jonas, and Nia washed off their suits and carefully doffed them. They entered the next tent, where Peyton pulled off her soaking T-shirt and toweled the sweat from her body. When she looked up, she saw Nia, standing naked as well, her body still coated in sweat, staring at her. Jonas was turned away, avoiding looking at the two women as he slipped on dry clothes.

“Are you going to administer ZMapp to Mr. Turner?” Nia asked. She stared at Peyton without blinking.

Peyton returned her stare. “Maybe.”

“I’d like doses for Dr. Kibet.”

In that moment, Peyton realized why the Kenyan Ministry of Health official had insisted she meet Dr. Kibet. It was already difficult to deny treatment to a person in need, and even harder when you had met the person.

“I can’t—”

“I will give him the dose myself. I ask only for the medication that might save his life. If we cannot save him, or at least do everything we can for him, it will be difficult to ask others to put themselves in harm’s way. It is also the right thing to do for a man who has put himself at risk long before your fellow Americans appeared at his door.”

Peyton pulled on a dry T-shirt. “I’ll have to make a call.”

She walked away before Nia could speak again.

Inside the main tent, she found Hannah, who sat at a long table typing on a laptop. The young physician stood when she saw Peyton.

“Do you have the results?” Peyton asked.

Hannah nodded. “All negative for Ebola. I took blood and saliva samples as requested.”

“Good. I’ll be right back. Get the samples ready for transport.”

It was 8:37 a.m. in Mandera; 12:37 a.m. in Atlanta. Peyton slid the satsleeve onto her phone and dialed Elliott Shapiro. She hated to call him so late, but it had to be done.

“Yeah,” Elliott said, half-asleep.

“Sorry to wake you.”

Peyton heard him rustling out of bed, his feet pacing across the floor, a door closing.

“It’s okay. What’s up?” His voice was still low.

“It’s not Ebola. The Kenyans tested everybody. So did we.”

“Symptoms?” he asked.

“All the classic symptoms of a filovirus. If I didn’t have the results, I’d say it’s Ebola or Marburg. But this thing moves faster than Ebola. Mortality rate looks to be high; no one has survived yet.”

Elliott waited.

Peyton tried to keep her voice even, professional. “Steven Cole is dead. Lucas Turner is infected. His condition is critical.” The steadiness seeped from her voice with the last words, and she took a breath. “This kid is dying, Elliott.”

“What do you want to do?”