“You and the team did great work today, Anjali. Nice job.”
“Thanks,” Anjali said. “I’ll feel better when Vanguard’s fever comes down and he’s breathing better on his own. The pneumonia’s in both lungs, and he’s very weak. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he stands a better chance now that he’s with us.”
“How’s she?” He jerked his chin in Sophie’s direction.
“Mild shock, nasty gash on the forehead, but otherwise fine. We gave her a sedative. She can sleep it off here tonight. Vanguard’s on twenty-four-hour watch, so she won’t be alone.”
The Rev nodded absently, looking at Sophie with awe. “Will tell you what she did?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll hear about it.”
“She’s an extraordinary person, Anjali.”
“I know.”
Sophie woke up abruptly, knowing something had disturbed her sleep. Something loud.
Where the hell am I?
The infirmary. At the base camp in the Soviet Republic. Michael.
Where is he? She knew he was here somewhere; she could sense him close by. She sat up, seeing a dim light on the other side of the curtain that surrounded her. Her forehead hurt like hell.
The dark-haired nurse smiled when she came out dragging her IV pole. Sophie used the restroom, then peered into the semi-dark at the other bed.
“Kathy,” the nurse said helpfully as she saw Sophie fumbling for her name. “Do you need something for pain?”
“Yes, something non-narcotic and strong, please. I have the world’s worst headache. How long have I been asleep?”
Kathy consulted the log on the desk as Sophie sat down beside her. “About twelve hours,” she said, smiling at Sophie’s shock and handing her two pills with lukewarm water. “You were sedated around 2 p.m. yesterday and now it’s the middle of the night.” A long, rattling cough came from Michael’s bed, and Sophie leapt to her feet.
“May I sit with him?” If the nurse said no, she was still going to sit with him, but asking seemed like the polite thing to do.
“Of course. His fever is still very high, and he’s been coughing a lot the last little while.” She handed Sophie a mask and gloves. “Perhaps you’d like something clean to wear.”
Sophie still wore the clothes she’d had on in the camp the day before, and her shirt was crusty with dried blood. She declined the hospital gown and asked for scrubs instead. She took herself and her IV pole to Michael’s bedside. Kathy dragged over a chair for her, then thoughtfully wrapped a warm blanket around Sophie’s shoulders.
She could feel the heat pouring off Michael’s skin. Even in the dark, she could see how painfully thin he was. How had he managed to survive in this state? “Do you have a cloth?”
The nurse handed her a damp cloth, and she wiped his face gently, being careful not to dislodge his oxygen line. Sophie dabbed as lightly as she could at his lips, but the fragile skin still cracked and bled. She squinted in the dark at his head, which seemed to be wrapped in some kind of pale fabric.
There was nothing else she could do. This was not an enemy she could fight, outwit, or strategize against. So for the next little while, she talked to him quietly in Orlisian, telling him about what had happened in the last few months. About his parents and her lunches with them. Interesting things in the news. The coalition. The impending birth of Carter and Janet’s baby.
After a while, Michael became restless and started moaning. She waved at the nurse, who came over to check his monitors.
“His fever is just below 104 degrees, and it’s making him restless. He may make some noise or call out. I’ll stay with him if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“No, that’s okay,” Sophie said. “Wouldn’t be the first time he’s shouted at me,” she mumbled when Kathy had stepped out of earshot. She must have drifted off to sleep for a few minutes because Michael’s scream startled her out of her wits. She leaped out of her chair and onto the edge of his bed in seconds.
He thrashed around, settled into an uneasy sleep, then worked his way back up to another shriek. He tried to put his arms up over his face, like he was protecting himself against a beating, and her heart broke a little to see that. Without another thought, she ripped off her gloves and caught his hands, desperate for contact with him.
“Nē, nē,” She shook her head, feeling the heat of his fingers against her skin. “You are all right. I am here, beloved.” When he settled down, she took the cloth again to wipe his forehead. As she put her hand behind his neck to support his head, she realized his head wasn’t wrapped – instead, hair had been shaved off.
They had been in the refugee camp for nearly two weeks, and in that time she had seen some of the most heartbreaking human conditions she’d ever witnessed, Darfur included. She’d won Michael’s life away from a madman and come within a hair of having a very makeshift tattoo cut into her forehead.