“What’s going on?”
“Michael is what’s going on. He’s gotten into bed with you.” She reached behind her. Michael, shivering with fever, had crawled into bed with her and spooned against her back, one thin arm clamped around her body with surprising strength. It took her several minutes to wiggle free, and several more with Anjali and one of the nurses to get him back to his own bed and reconnected to his lines. They opened the curtains between the two beds, hoping that visual reassurance would be enough if he awoke again.
A couple of hours later, Anjali returned to the infirmary. She found Sophie working, laptop balanced on her knees. Sprawled across her, one foot dangling off the edge of the bed, was Michael.
Anjali glared at her. “This is a hospital, not a dorm room! Why didn’t you call me?”
“I made sure he didn’t remove his lines this time.” Sophie pointed to the tubes and wires stretched between the two beds. She’d shoved her bed over to make everything reach. Barely.
Anjali sighed. “He’s got a highly infectious pneumonia. You can’t have this kind of contact with a patient. Use your head, for God’s sake.”
Sophie ignored her, but she also didn’t return to her work, instead picking moodily at the edge of her blanket. “Listen,” she finally said. “Is he well enough for me to let his parents know he’s alive?” She tried to be casual, but the fear in her voice leaked out. “I don’t want to tell them until I know the odds are in his favor.”
“There are no guarantees, especially this early on,” Anjali replied. “He’s improving, but he’s a very sick man. I’m not sure how he managed to stay alive as long as he did. That said, yes, I think you’re safe to tell his parents that he’s alive.”
After Anjali had left, Sophie picked up her iPhone and, tears trickling down her face, sent the text message to Maxwell and Signe that she had dreamed of sending for so long.
Vanguard secured. Safe at base camp. Condition sub-optimal but improving. More information later.
-
The next time Michael got out of bed went differently. Sophie, who had been in the midst of it, hadn’t had time to notice her colleagues’ reaction to seeing the infamous Nariovsky temper in action.
Anjali had been taking a briefing in the evening from the Rev and Georgs, the translator helping him work with the Commandant. They were standing outside the infirmary when a husky, crackling sound came from inside, punctuated with booming coughs. Anjali, the Rev, and Georgs looked into the room.
Michael’s voice was little more than a rasp from the pneumonia. But what he lacked in volume, he made up for in intensity. He stood at the end of Sophie’s bed, lines trailing away onto the floor, trembling with the effort to stay upright. Even though a strong wind could probably have knocked him down, Michael still managed to look intimidating. The Rev glanced at Anjali in alarm, clearly wondering if he should intervene.
Sophie sat in bed, glaring at Michael. They started toward her in concern, but she waved them back. Michael continued to rage in Orlisian, oblivious to his surroundings.
“Georgs,” Anjali said, nudging him. “C’mon. What’s he saying?”
Georgs gaped at her. “It is a conversation of a personal nature, Dr. Shah.”
“Then they shouldn’t be having it in front of a translator,” she said impatiently. “What’s he saying?”
Georgs looked at the Rev helplessly for a minute, then turned back to Michael. “He…he is…extraordinarily displeased to find Miss Swenda here.”
“We figured that. Go on.”