Page 20 of Outbreak Protocol
"Still in the ICU. They moved Anna Richter there six hours ago."
The words hit like physical impact. Anna—Felix's closestcolleague, the nurse who anticipated his needs during medical emergencies, single mother to eight-year-old Emma. I've watched Felix's face whenever he mentions her, the protective affection of someone who considers a colleague family.
I grab my jacket and head for the door.
"Erik, where are you going?"
"To find Felix."
The hospital corridors at this hour pulse with barely contained panic. Medical staff sprint between overflowing wards, their usual professional composure cracking under the weight of something they can't comprehend. I dodge a crash cart racing toward the ICU, nearly colliding with two nurses struggling to carry IV poles and blood bags for patients whose conditions are deteriorating faster than they can treat them.
Shouted medical orders echo from every direction. "Get me another unit of platelets!" "His pressure's dropping again!" "Where's the attending? We need someone to make the call on—"
The voices cut off abruptly as I pass, replaced by the grim efficiency of doctors who've realized they're fighting a battle they don't understand. In Ward 7, they've converted the entire floor into a makeshift isolation unit. Through doorways, I glimpse scenes of controlled desperation—medical teams working frantically over patients whose bodies are failing in ways that defy their training.
A resident stumbles past me, blood on her scrubs, eyes wide with the kind of fear that comes from watching your interventions fail repeatedly. "We've lost three more," she mutters to her colleague. "The bleeding just won't stop, no matter what we try."
I find Felix standing outside Room 7-C, staring through the glass partition at Anna's unconscious form. She's intubated, connected to monitors that display her vital signs in harsh digital readouts—numbers that tell a story of systemic collapse no one knows how to reverse.
"She was fine yesterday morning," Felix says without turningaround. His voice carries the hollow exhaustion of someone who's been awake too long, caring too much. "Made jokes about my terrible coffee, helped calm a pediatric patient with night terrors. Twelve hours later, she collapsed during shift change. Just like all the others."
I move to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Through the glass, Anna looks smaller than when I met her three days ago, her face pale above the ventilator tubing.
"What's her clinical course been?"
"Textbook progression. Fever of 39.8 within two hours of symptom onset, rapid neurological deterioration, hemorrhagic complications starting around hour eight. She's following the same pattern as everyone else, but knowing the timeline doesn't make it easier to watch."
Felix's hands rest against the glass, and I notice the tremor in his fingers—stress, caffeine withdrawal, or emotional strain. Probably all three.
"Her daughter Emma was supposed to stay with one of her friends this weekend," he continues. "Now she's asking why Mummy won't answer her phone calls. How do you explain to an eight-year-old that her mother might not come home?"
The question hangs between us, unanswerable and devastating. I want to offer reassurance based on survival statistics, but Felix knows the numbers as well as I do. Anna's age and overall health put her in a better prognostic category, but this pathogen doesn't follow normal epidemiological rules.
"You can't save everyone," I say finally, the words inadequate but necessary.
"I know that intellectually. But Anna's not a statistic to me—she's family. We've worked together for four years. She knows how I take my coffee, and remembers patients' names months after they've recovered. She's one of the best nurses I've ever worked with and one of the kindest people I know."
Felix's voice breaks slightly on the last words, and somethingshifts in my chest. I've spent years protecting myself from exactly this kind of emotional investment, maintaining professional distance to avoid the pain of personal loss. But watching Felix grieve for his colleague, I realize that caring deeply doesn't make someone weak—it makes them human.
"She's receiving the best possible care," I offer, knowing how insufficient it sounds.
"Which isn't good enough. We don't have effective antivirals, supportive care only goes so far, and this pathogen seems designed to overwhelm human immune responses. I'm watching my friend die and there's nothing I can do except monitor her vital signs and hope for statistical outliers."
The irony isn't lost on me—Felix using my language of statistics to express his helplessness. We've been influencing each other's perspectives without realizing it.
"Come on," I say, making a decision. "You need food and sleep."
"I can't leave her."
"You can't help her by collapsing from exhaustion either. Anna needs you functional, not martyred."
Felix looks at me with surprise, as if he hasn't expected such directness from someone he still considers primarily an academic researcher. But crisis strips away social pretenses, and I've learned that sometimes care means being brutally honest.
"The cafeteria's closed, but there's a vending machine on the third floor. We'll get whatever passes for food, find somewhere quiet to sit, and you'll tell me about Anna when she's healthy. Not the patient in Room 7-C, but your colleague and friend."
Felix studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."
We take the elevator in comfortable silence, and I realize how much our dynamic has shifted over the past few days. The formal professional boundaries that governed our initial interaction have dissolved into something more collaborative, more personal. I find myself reading his emotional states withincreasing accuracy—the tension in his shoulders when patient conditions deteriorate, the way he runs his hand through his hair when frustrated with hospital administration, the subtle brightening of his expression when we achieve small victories in our investigation.
