Minutes earlier, Kilburn had tried to explain the patient’s condition to his wife, Annie, in the ICU family conference room. Prepared to face her anger or blame, Kilburn saw neither. Legs crossed and a weak smile on her lips, Annie sat stoically and listened to his explanation. When he finished, the tears began to roll down her cheeks and fall onto her blouse. She tried to speak, but it took a few attempts before her voice cooperated. Finally, she reached out and touched his sleeve lightly. “Dr. Kilburn,” she said between soft sobs. “There must be something …”

But there was nothing.

The mutated group-A strep that was multiplying unchecked in Mallek’s chest had materialized out of nowhere. And it resisted everything Kilburn had thought to throw at it.

His thoughts drifted from Annie to his little sister Kyra. He remembered her similarly plaintive cries for help the day Social Services threatened to place Matt and Shayna in foster care. At the time, he was overwhelmed by the enormity of responsibility in assuming care of his then four-year-old nephew and two-year-old niece. But at least then he had the ability to intervene. Now, six years later, he felt utterly useless.

The loudspeaker’s salvo jerked him from the memories. “Code Blue ICU! Code Blue ICU!” the voice repeated.

Kilburn was up and moving without waiting for a room number. He knew where to go.

His heart slammed against his ribcage as he sprinted the twenty yards to Mallek’s room. But he knew better than to break infection control protocols. He grabbed a set of protective gear from the stack by the door. Wrestling himself into the gown, he hopped one-footed into each shoe covering, before slapping on a cap and surgical mask with clear eye shield. Hurriedly, he stuffed his hands into two pairs of latex gloves.

“Full body precautions!” he yelled to the other members of the Code Blue team who stormed the hall.

Bursting into the room first, Kilburn saw Mallek lying on the bed. His skin was gray and his chest still. His nurse, the only other person in the room, was a flurry at the head of the bed. She pinned a triangular bag-mask device over the patient’s face, struggling to pump oxygen into his lungs. She glimpsed in Kilburn’s direction without breaking the rhythm of her bag squeezing. “You a doctor?” she demanded.

“Yes,” he said, trotting to the bedside. “Graham Kilburn. Infectious diseases.”

She nodded. Her thumbs repositioned the mask while she pulled Mallek’s jaw forward with her index and middle finger. “Stopped breathing two minutes ago,” she said in a clipped but calm voice. She squeezed the bag so hard it looked as though she were trying to pop it. “Lungs are so full. He’s almost impossible to bag.”