“I don’t stay in one place long enough to have a hamster, let alone a family.”

She can tell that he sees through her levity. “I miss the action, Alana. What we used to do. What you still do.”

She thinks of her previous outbreak-containment missions, such as yellow fever in Guyana, drug-resistant tuberculosis in Central Asia, and, of course, Ebola in West Africa. The faces of the dead and dying, particularly the children, who are always most susceptible. “Some things are better left unseen, Nico.”

He doesn’t comment, but she realizes he’s not convinced. As they round another corner, he says, “Tell me, I originally tried you at your WHO email address. The email, it bounced back to me. Of course, I would never misplace your mobile number, but . . .”

Alana remembers his unexpected text, and how excited she was to hear from him, their painful parting forgotten. She might have found an excuse to visit him in person regardless of the circumstance, but two words in his note—the plague—had started her packing for Genoa without a second thought. “I’m not with the World Health Organization anymore, Nico.”

“Oh? I thought you were what we used to call a ‘lifer.’ ”

I once did, too. For a moment she considers telling him about her disastrous final mission in Liberia during the height of the Ebola crisis. Nico worked for the WHO; he, of all people, would understand. But all she says is, “I needed a change.”

“You were in Geneva, no?” he asks, confused.

“Not far away,” she says vaguely.

“Alana.” He arches an eyebrow. “You are not back with the military, are you?”

“There’ll be time later to catch up. Over wine,” she says, regretting the words the minute they pass her lips. “Nico, please, tell me about the patient.”

“Vittoria Fornero, a forty-two-year-old previously healthy construction worker,” he says. “She arrived here at the hospital two days ago. Fever and coughing up blood. Within twenty-four hours, she was placed on life support.”

Alana feels the tension building in her shoulder. “You isolated her right away, I hope?”

“Of course,” Nico snorts. “Initially, the other doctors thought it might be tuberculosis.”

“What made you think otherwise?”

“I found the lump in her right armpit. There was no mistaking it. A classic bubo.”

“Did you biopsy it?”

“No need, Alana. The sputum cultures. No question, it is the plague. The Yersinia pestis bacteria that causes it grew on the culture plates faster than rats breeding in a slum.”

Alana finds the turn of phrase ironic, but she holds her tongue as they join two cleaners inside an elevator who are lost in conversation of their own, speaking what might be Russian or Ukrainian.

She and Nico emerge on the sixth floor. Though they are the only ones in the hallway, Alana still lowers her voice. “Did you start her early on antibiotic coverage?”

Nico grimaces. “The moment I saw her! Even before we had the culture results. Broad-spectrum antibiotics, including both levofloxacin and doxycycline.”