Page 21 of Outbreak Protocol
The third-floor vending machine offers a selection of packaged sandwiches that look questionable under fluorescent lighting. I feed coins into the machine while Felix finds us an empty consultation room with two chairs and a small table.
"Turkey and cheese or ham and mustard?"
"Surprise me."
I choose turkey and cheese for both of us, along with two cups of coffee that taste like they've been brewing since yesterday. Felix accepts his sandwich without comment, picking at the edges while staring out the small window at Hamburg's pre-dawn darkness.
"Tell me about Anna," I prompt gently.
Felix's expression softens. "She started here the same week I transferred from pathology to emergency medicine. I was terrible at patient interaction then—too clinical, too distant. I went from only seeing dead people to interacting with the living exclusively, it was a hard transition. Anna taught me how to connect with people without losing professional boundaries."
He takes a small bite of sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "She has this way of making everyone feel heard. Patients remember her years later because she actually listens when they talk about their fears. Other nurses come to her with personal problems because she gives excellent advice without being judgmental."
"You care about her deeply."
"She's the sister I never had. When I doubted my decision to leave pathology, Anna convinced me I had the right instincts for emergency medicine. She's seen me at my worst—exhausted, frustrated, overwhelmed—and never made me feel inadequate."
I watch Felix's face as he talks, noting how discussing Anna'spositive qualities provides temporary relief from current anxiety. This is something I understand about grief and worry—sometimes focusing on what makes someone special helps process the fear of losing them.
"What does she like to do outside work?"
"Photography. She takes these incredible urban landscape shots around Hamburg—abandoned buildings, graffiti, architectural details most people overlook. Emma sometimes goes with her on weekend photo walks. Anna says it teaches patience and attention to detail."
"Sounds like qualities that make her excellent at nursing."
"Exactly. She notices things other people miss—subtle changes in patient condition, family dynamics that affect treatment compliance, when colleagues are struggling with difficult cases. The emergency department runs more smoothly when Anna's working."
Felix pauses, then looks directly at me. "How do you handle losing people you care about? In your work, I mean. You must have analyzed outbreaks where colleagues or friends were affected."
The question catches me off-guard with its directness. I think about Astrid, about the walls I've built around my heart to avoid exactly the kind of pain Felix is experiencing now.
"Honestly? I've spent most of my career avoiding personal attachment to individual cases. I analyze populations, not people. It's safer emotionally, but also limiting professionally."
"Safer how?"
I hesitate, then decide Felix deserves honesty. "I lost my younger sister, Astrid, when I was sixteen. Leukaemia. Watching her deteriorate over eighteen months taught me that caring too much about individuals can be devastating. So I chose epidemiology partly because it allows me to help people without getting attached to specific patients. On the screen they're just numbers in formulas, I can compartmentalize them and detach myself from it all."
Felix sets down his coffee cup, giving me his full attention. "But you've been different during this outbreak. More engaged with individual cases, more emotionally present during family interviews."
"You've been teaching me that statistical models are more accurate when they account for human behaviour and individual circumstances. Your approach to patient care has shown me what I've been missing by maintaining emotional distance."
"And what's that?"
"The humanity that makes medicine meaningful rather than just technically proficient."
We sit in comfortable silence, processing both the personal revelations and the weight of the crisis surrounding us. Through the window, Hamburg's skyline begins to show hints of dawn—another day in an outbreak that's spiraling beyond our control.
"Erik," Felix says quietly, "I'm scared."
The admission hangs between us, vulnerable and honest. I want to offer reassurance based on epidemiological precedent, but Felix isn't asking for professional assessment. He's sharing personal fear with someone he trusts.
"About Anna specifically, or the outbreak generally?"
"Both. Anna because she's family to me, and the outbreak because we're losing ground. Every day brings exponential case increases, healthcare system strain, and no clear path to effective treatment. I'm watching Hamburg transform into something I don't recognize."
I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine—a gesture that would have been impossible for me a week ago. Physical comfort isn't my strength, but Felix's vulnerability demands response.
"We'll find answers. Sarah's genetic analysis is revealing important pathogen characteristics, Yuki's models help predict outbreak trajectory, and Aleksandr's coordinating resources more effectively than local authorities managed alone. We're making progress."
