On the fourth day, I’m walking between rows of patients when I hear Zad curse. In the years I’ve known him, I’ve never once heard Zad raise his voice, and I run to his side. Zad stares down at the glassy-eyed foot soldier lying on the pallet before us. The man is unnaturally still.

“He won’t be the last,” he says.

It occurs to me, as we dump the body into the freshly dug mass grave, that I don’t know this soldier’s name.

Nine more die that day, and then twelve the next. Disposing of the bodies becomes mechanical, and I no longer wonder about their names. The smell of the decomposing dead clings to my skin. At first I dutifully scrub my hands and gloves after disposing of each body, but as my skin begins to redden and crack, I have to stop. It should upset me that I can no longer take these precautions, but it doesn’t. Surrounded by so much death, it seems folly to think I will be spared.

On the sixth day, I notice a change in one of my patients. When I give him some water to drink, his eyes fix on mine, and I can tell that he recognizes me.

Hope bubbles up in my chest. “This one,” I call to Kaylah. “Is he recovering?”

Kaylah is as exhausted as the rest of us, but her eyes take on that familiar glint of concentration. She examines the patient—checks his pulse, looks in his eyes, and examines his skin.

“What is your name?” she asks.

The soldier’s voice comes out as a rasp. “Piruz.”

“Who is your commander?”

“Arxa, commander third rank.”

His answers are promising. The rose plague fever sometimes burns away a patient’s memories, but this man seems to know who he is. As Kaylah continues to question him though, I begin to worry. He looks to be gaining strength by the moment, yet his marks are still red. Finally, Kaylah gives the man a sleeping draft to help him rest. As he drifts into slumber, I see pity in Kaylah’s eyes instead of the relief I’d hoped for.

“He will survive,” she confirms. “And he made it through the fever with his wits intact. But he is rosemarked.”

A wave of helpless rage overtakes me. What cruel disease is this, that hands out hope only to take it away? This man might have wrested his life back for a few years, but he’ll live out that time in isolation. I look down at the sleeping soldier, who seems unaware as yet of his new fate, and in my mind’s eye I see Kaylah bedridden, covered with rosemarks, Doron burning with fever, and Zad raving with delirium. I suck in a breath and look away. I sense Kaylah’s eyes on me, but she doesn’t say a word.