Zoe nodded, feeling a bond with the child that she could not explain. “What about HIV?”
He shrugged. “It’s a possibility, assuming the perpetrator was positive. But the likelihood of infection is low. We’ll keep her on ARVs and test her again in six weeks.” He gave Zoe a compassionate look. “I bet you could use some sleep. Why don’t you go home?”
She stretched her arms and felt the ache of sleeplessness in every muscle. Still she hesitated.
“I’ll get my CD player,” he said, anticipating her concern. “She’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Zoe conceded. “I’ll give you my mobile number in case anything happens.”
After giving the doctor her information, she took a last look at the child and slipped out of the hospital. She inhaled the dry Zambian air and smiled at the rising sun. Even after years of visiting Africa’s highland plateaus, she still found the near-perfect climate a gift.
She took out her phone and called Maurice Isaac, a driver for CILA who lived nearby. He dismissed her apology and promised to pick her up in ten minutes. She called Joseph next. He answered on the second ring.
“Did you sleep?” he asked, sounding groggy.
“Not a wink. What’s the plan for today?”
He hesitated. “The plan?”
“Your trip to Kanyama. I’d like to be part of the investigation.” When the silence lingered, she decided to press. “Look, I’m not Joy Herald, but I care about this girl. I can call Mariam if you like.”
“That’s not necessary,” he replied. “I’m just concerned about your safety. The compounds are unstable with the election coming up.” He took a breath and gave in. “All right. I’ll pick you up at fourteen hundred.”
With the shades drawn in her bedroom, Zoe managed to sleep until noon. She woke again to the ringtone on her iPhone—the chorus from U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” She shook her head and blinked a few times, seeing only the blur of her mosquito net. A curse of Fleming genetics, she had inherited her father’s near-sightedness. Without corrective lenses, she would have been legally blind.
She threw aside the net and found her contact lens case on the bedside table. As soon as she could see, she checked her phone. She thought the caller might have been Dr. Chulu, but instead she saw Mariam’s name on the screen. The field-office director had left a voicemail.
“Good morning, Zoe,” Mariam said. “Joseph told me you plan to accompany him to Kanyama. Be careful, please. We’ll have a response team meeting in the morning.”
Zoe pulled back the curtains from her second-story window and admired the red leaves of the poinsettia tree in the courtyard. The poinsettia had been her mother’s favorite African plant, a symbol of the continent’s exoticism and fecundity. She took a fast shower—there was never enough hot water in the tank for a long one—and dressed in jeans and a lavender Oxford shirt.
Heading to the kitchen, she fixed herself a breakfast of eggs, toast, and papaya and ate on the porch overlooking the gardens while rereading Proust’s Swann’s Way. It was a regular pilgrimage, the closest thing she had to religion after her years at Stanford. Like Proust’s narrator, she saw the past everywhere she looked, as if it were a layer of reality just beneath the present. In this, too, she was her father’s daughter. Along with his failing eyesight, she had inherited his extraordinary memory.
The text from Joseph came at quarter to two. She gathered her backpack off the dining-room table and crossed the courtyard to the gate. The guard—a recent recruit whose name she couldn’t recall—let her out onto the street. She saw the VSU officer behind the wheel of his truck, wearing aviator sunglasses and a jean jacket. As soon as she climbed in, Joseph pulled away from the curb, accelerating quickly down the tree-lined road. The sky was spotless, not a hint of cloud.
“How was your morning?” Zoe asked.
“Fine,” said Joseph.
“Do anything fun?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why do you ask so many questions?”
She suppressed her annoyance. “I figured if we’re going to work together, we should be friendly. You seemed to have no trouble talking at the bar last night.”
He cleared his throat. “If you have to know, I spent the morning working on this truck. It is—what do you call it?—a money pit. I bought it from a cousin who’s a mechanic. I’m convinced he gave me a good deal because he knew it would be a steady source of income.”
She chuckled. “Glad to see you have a sense of humor.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “I have five siblings. You learn to laugh.”
She whistled. “Your mother must be a saint. What does your father do?”
“He owns a textile company.”
She frowned. And you’ve spent the last ten years taking breadcrumbs from the government? “Why did you become a police officer?”
His answer was cryptic. “One has to start somewhere.”