“It’s the least I could do for the woman who saved my life. I’m sure I would not have survived without ZMapp.”
“You don’t have me to thank for that,” Peyton said. “A woman at the Kenyan Ministry of Health, Nia Okeke, was very convincing. She deserves the credit.”
Elim nodded grimly, as if hearing the woman’s name saddened him.
“I’m afraid we can’t take Hannah with us,” Peyton said.
“I expected as much. I assure you, I will give her the very best care I can.”
Peyton could see that he meant it.
“I know you will. Thank you.”
Back inside the building, Peyton took a deep breath before walking into Hannah’s room. Elim and the woman from the village followed right behind her.
Hannah lay in the bed resting, her eyes closed. Monitors showed her vitals, which Peyton was glad to see were strong.
Peyton placed a hand on Hannah’s shoulder.
“Hannah.” She paused. “Can you hear me?”
Hannah opened her eyes slowly.
“I need to go. Elim is going to take good care of you.”
Hannah nodded, thanked Elim, then looked at the woman beside him.
“You’re from the village,” she said.
Elim translated, and the woman nodded.
Elim then explained to both Hannah and Peyton, “Your colleague, Millen Thomas, brought her to Mandera.”
Millen is alive. Peyton was overjoyed at the news, but Hannah’s expression suggested she was even more joyful. A tear ran down her face.
“He found me in the hospital,” Elim said. “I was alive, but just barely. Millen and Dhamiria rehabilitated me.” He looked at the woman beside him. “Gave me a reason to live.” To Hannah, he added, “I’ve recently learned how powerful that medicine can be.”
There was a long pause.
Hannah reached out and took Peyton’s hand. Hannah’s tears were coming faster now, but she didn’t cry out loud.
Peyton asked the question she knew the younger woman wanted to. “Where did Millen go?”
“Home. To Atlanta. He called someone—Elliott, I believe was his name. His colleague arranged transport. He departed several days ago, with the two children from the village. He was taking them to the CDC, in hopes they might find clues to a cure.”
Peyton’s mind raced. Millen taking the survivors to the CDC was a break.
To Hannah, Elim said, “Millen was quite worried about everyone he had traveled here with—but he was especially worried about you.”
Peyton felt Hannah squeeze her hand.
Elim gave Peyton some supplies for the trip: food, water, and—just in case, he said—medicine. Peyton had been coughing, and the physician had obviously realized she was infected with the Mandera virus. The antibiotics he provided would treat any secondary infections.
As Elim led her down the corridor, he said, “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask since you arrived.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“The young American I cared for, Lucas Turner. Did he make it?”
Peyton shook her head. “No. I’m very sorry.”
“So am I. He was a fine young man. And brave.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“Well, thank you for everything,” Peyton said at last.
“Good luck to you, Dr. Shaw.”
“And to you.”
In the makeshift hospital room, Hannah dried the tears from her face and closed her eyes. She had never been so tired in all her life. She knew the fever was advancing, that the days ahead would determine whether she lived or died. She was ready. Because now she would face it with a very valuable thing, a thing she didn’t have the day before.
Hope.
In another patient room, Elim Kibet injected a vial of antibiotics into the IV.
“You’re wasting that on me,” the woman said.
Despite her deteriorating condition, her tone was firm, insistent. Elim had to agree with Dr. Shaw: Nia Okeke was a very convincing woman when she wanted to be.
“You know,” he said, “for your sake, it’s a good thing you are not the physician in charge here.”
The plane was similar to the Air Force transport Peyton had come to Kenya on, except a bit smaller. The crew cabin held six high-backed chairs and an open space where Peyton found Desmond stretched out on a sleeping bag. He wore only boxers and a T-shirt, which had sweat spots coming through.
He was still in great shape, with broad shoulders and the build of someone who did kickboxing or weight training, not yoga or endurance running. The burn scars that covered his feet and stretched up his legs caught her eye, and she remembered the first time she saw them, almost twenty years ago, that morning in her dorm room. That felt like a lifetime ago, yet here and now, he was somehow more like that happy nineteen-year-old kid than he was like the troubled adult he had become after. Just like that night at the Halloween party, she felt herself irresistibly drawn to him, like a black hole that was pulling her in with no hope of escape.
She had felt the first spark when she heard his voice the previous Saturday night. And again when Lucas Turner had said his name. And when she had seen his name written on the wall of the barn stall. It had been Desmond who had rescued her from the ship and likely saved Hannah’s life in the process. At each point, a little more of her had come alive, like she was waking up from a long sleep. But she couldn’t allow that to happen. They had work to do. Lives were at stake—things far more important than her and Desmond.
She settled into a sleeping bag beside him, and they lay in silence. She could feel him looking at her. She wondered what he was thinking, when he would remember—if he would remember. And what she would do then.
Five minutes later, the plane lifted off, en route to Shetland.
Despite the noise and turbulence, Desmond fell asleep quickly. He must be exhausted, Peyton thought. The temperature in the cabin dropped as the plane climbed. The engines roared; Avery was pushing the craft to its limits.