A stack of black body bags lay under a white tent nearby. With each passing hour, the smell of death and decaying flesh had faded, until finally, the night’s winds that swept through the quiet village were fresh again.

In her tent, Peyton plopped down on her cot and began rubbing a topical analgesic over her legs and arms to soothe her sore muscles. She wore a white tank top and athletic shorts that stopped at her upper thigh; both were soaked with sweat.

Though her body ached, she felt more at home than she had in quite some time. Since her last deployment, she realized. That was the truth: this tent in the third world, not her condo in Atlanta, was home for her. She felt most at peace here—and filled with purpose. Despite the stress and long hours, she was somehow more at ease.

Tracking outbreaks was her life’s work, but it was also her way of life. Viruses were predictable: they could be tracked and understood. People were different. They were irrational and hurtful and never around when they should be. People were a blind spot for her. And a sore spot. Men in particular.

Peyton knew she was on the verge of making the biggest decision of her life: whether to settle down and have a family, or dedicate herself to her work. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted, but she knew being here, in Africa, in the middle of this outbreak, felt right to her. At the same time, however, she felt an emptiness inside of her. Being here didn’t fill it, but it did make her forget about it for a while.

Jonas threw the tent flap open and ducked to enter. He stopped and squinted as he inhaled the vapors from the rub. “Whoa, that stuff is strong.”

“Sorry. I can do this outside.”

“No. Stay. I want some myself. My back is killing me.”

Without asking her, Jonas took the tube from her hand. “Here, let me.” He squeezed some of the gel out. “What have you covered?”

“Legs and arms,” Peyton said.

“Let’s do your back.” With his dry hand, he guided her to sit on the floor, positioning her back to him. Peyton sat cross-legged, her back arched, shoulders pushed back. Jonas’s legs stretched out flat on the floor of the tent, the skin on his calves resting against her knees.

When his hand with the gel touched her back, Peyton inhaled sharply and arched her spine.

“Sorry,” Jonas said.

“It’s okay. Little warning next time.”

Slowly, Jonas massaged the soothing gel into Peyton’s lower back, working his fingers first into the soft tissue above her bottom. She could feel him pulling her shorts down, then tugging the drenched white tank top up as he moved higher.

“You’ll never get the smell out of your clothes.”