Nia led the three of them—Peyton, Jonas, and Hannah—to a large room where at least forty patients lay on mats, blankets, and pillows on the floor. Hannah felt her pulse accelerate. She had seen pictures of Ebola treatment units, but they hadn’t prepared her for this moment. Time seemed to stand still as every detail leapt out at her. Plastic buckets labeled for vomit, feces, and urine lined the narrow walkways between the makeshift beds. Empty bottles of ORS were strewn across the floor. The buzzing ceiling fans fought a futile battle with the heat that seeped through the closed windows and rose from the bodies on the floor. Jaundiced eyes turned to stare at the newcomers.
With each step the thin rubber suit seemed to collapse in upon Hannah like a plastic bag whose air was being sucked out. The sensation of the PPE clinging to her sweaty forearms and thighs only reminded her that the thin layer was all that separated her from the pathogen that was killing these people. Any break, even the smallest tear, could let the pathogen in. She could be infected, relegated to fighting for her life in this place.
She could hear her own breathing inside the suit. Outside, she heard the moans and crying of the patients. But amid the sounds of agony, a beautiful sound cut through: singing. Groups in clumps performed church hymns and folk songs. The contrast of pain and beauty and courage was inspiring—and unnerving.
The box Hannah carried had seemed light at first. Now it felt like an anvil. She set it down next to a young woman lying in the corner.
“I’m Dr. Hannah Watson. I’m with the CDC. I need to take a small sample of your blood for testing.”
The woman slowly opened her yellow, bloodshot eyes but said nothing. A black fly landed on her face, causing her to turn her head, sending the insect back into the air.
Hannah drew out the ReEBOV test kit, took a drop of blood from the woman’s finger, and placed a small bandage over the place she had pricked. She slipped the sample in the cooler and lifted the bottle of ORS by the woman’s side. It was half full.
“How many bottles have you been drinking per day?” Hannah asked.
The woman just shook her head.
“You need to stay hydrated. Can I get you anything else?”
After a labored breath, the woman said, “No, Doctor. Thank you.”
Glancing around, Hannah noticed that on one wall someone had written the letters A through F to mark the rows, and along another wall, the numbers one through twelve marked the columns. She made a mental note that A1 was not taking enough fluids and that she had no other requests.
She took out another test kit, lifted the cooler, and moved to A2.
Twenty minutes later, Hannah exited the hospital. She was so hot she felt like clawing the PPE off. It clung to her sweaty skin, a hot plastic film that felt like it was melting onto her. But Dr. Shaw’s warning was fresh in her mind. She took her time doffing the suit, then hurried into the tent where an EIS agent was testing her samples from row A.
The agent looked up. “All negative for Ebola.”
Hannah nodded. Dr. Shaw had told her to expect that. But even though the Kenyans had already tested the patients and found them negative for Ebola, the prudent course of action had been to run their own tests with kits from another manufacturing batch, just to be sure.
Hannah also knew that Dr. Shaw had likely planned this as part of her training. Hannah would be testing more patients in the field soon, in the villages around Mandera. She’d be on her own. And she was thankful for the opportunity to learn the procedure here, where she had help close by.
Nia led Jonas and Peyton to the back corner of the large treatment room, where a middle-aged man was propped against the yellowing plaster wall. His eyes were closed, and he wore a sweat-soaked tank top. A folded white coat lay by his side.
“Doctors Shaw and Becker, this is Dr. Elim Kibet, Chief of Physicians here at Mandera.”
Dr. Kibet opened his eyes, looked up at his visitors, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He smiled weakly. “In the interest of full disclosure, I was the only physician here at Mandera.” He focused on Peyton. “We did everything we could for the young Americans. I’m sorry. It was not much.”
Peyton squatted down, bringing herself close to eye level with the doctor.
“All of us appreciate your efforts, Dr. Kibet. The CDC, the American government, and especially those boys’ parents.”
Dr. Kibet reached under the white coat and brought out a spiral-bound notebook. He handed it to Peyton.
“Before the ministry arrived, I talked at length with Mr. Turner.”
Peyton ensured her gloves were dry, then flipped through the notebook, scanning the ruled pages filled with neat handwriting. Dr. Kibet had been extremely thorough. Peyton hoped his notes might contain a clue that would lead them to the index case.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said. She looked up at Nia, who was studying her intently. Peyton got the impression there was something more going on here, but she wasn’t sure what.
“Are you ready to see Mr. Turner?” the Kenyan woman asked.
Inside the orange Tyvek suit, Peyton felt as though the temperature had suddenly increased five degrees. She was aware of her breath, and of the weight of the decision she would soon have to make. It was a call that could determine the fate of the young man—and possibly millions of others.
Chapter 23
Lucas Turner felt like he had been in the hospital room in Mandera for years. He knew it had only been a few days, but those days had been the longest of his twenty-three years on Earth.
The disease had started with a pain in his neck, and a fever. He had felt fine otherwise. But a few hours later, his body was turning itself inside out. He vomited nearly everything he ate. The diarrhea emptied his bowels the moment any morsel reached them, then reached for more, like a hose sucking his insides out.