“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She drew a deep breath, the stink of the camp, disinfectant, and death rushing into her lungs. “It’s Vanguard. I know it.” Another breath. “How do you want to do this? It’s not like we have a room with one-way glass in it.”
“We won’t need one.” Anjali’s voice came from behind her, and Sophie turned. She hadn’t seen her friend since the outbreak had erupted, and she looked like hell. Sophie reached for Anjali’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “He’s unconscious. You can come now to confirm that it’s him.” Anjali’s eyes flitted quickly to Will’s and then back to Sophie. Will put his hand on the small of Sophie’s back, and they led her to a screened-off area to the right of the main ward.
Her blood sang in her veins. Michael, Michael, Michael. She found it ridiculous that they were making her look at him for identification. Couldn’t they feel it? As they stepped up to the screen, Anjali stopped in front of her, Will behind, his strong hands moving around her waist. Sophie vaguely wondered why he was supporting her so.
“Sophie, listen to me,” said Anjali. “He’s extremely ill. Look at him, but try not to fixate on his physical appearance. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” She nodded. “Does Vanguard have any distinguishing marks? Something you could see and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s him?”
“Of course.” Michael, Michael, Michael. “We all have one of these.” Sophie shoved her jacket up and pushed down the waistband of her jeans. On the inside curve of her hip was a tattoo that read GYL02. “He has one in the same spot.”
“Perfect. Let’s focus on finding that tattoo.” In tandem, Anjali and Will stepped around the screen, taking Sophie with them.
Michael, Michael, Michael.
The figure lying in front of her was not Michael. Could not be Michael. Now she understood why Will had her around the waist. Her legs gave out, and the floor spun toward her.
Don’t lose control. His life depends on it.
Sophie hung in Will’s grasp for a moment, then sank to the floor against him. Ripping her mask off, she put her head between her legs and dry heaved a couple of times. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Someone pushed a water bottle into her hands, and she drank greedily. It felt good. Even when she threw it back up a moment later, still cold as it rushed up her throat, it was good.
After a few minutes, she signaled Will to help her up. Her hands were shaking too badly to get her mask back on, so he did it for her. Anjali had already moved Michael’s hospital gown to the side so that they could see the tattoo. They had their ID. Sophie looked at him again.
He was thin, so thin that his wrists looked like a child’s. Starvation had made his face skeletal. His bones threatened to poke out through his flesh. Skin waxy and dull, with a bluish hue around his extremities. Sores were scattered across his body. Even at this distance, she could see vermin in his matted hair. Anjali’s team had wiped a layer of filth from him, but a ring of blood crusted around his blue lips, probably from a recent bout of coughing.
Michael’s chest moved quickly, shallow pants as he labored to get oxygen into his wasted body. His lips were slightly pulled back, and he’d lost a couple of teeth. Every inch of him was bruised, cut, or blooming with infection.
His toes were black. Frostbite. His fingers. He’s a doctor. Sophie hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until Anjali assured her.
“His fingers are fine, just his feet. He can manage without a few toes.”
Sophie reached out to touch his face, but Anjali caught her hand. “Not until we’ve had a chance to diagnose him. I can’t have you sick too.” She could feel the fevered heat radiating off him. His face had not been marred by Jaros’ knife.
“Can he hear me?”
“He might be able to.”
“It’s me, Mikael,” she whispered in Orlisian. “I’m here. I love you.”