Page 54 of Sick of You

When we reached Infectious Disease, I finally felt like I was in familiar territory. Using our glassed-in isolation units was pretty rare, but for cases like this—and several less extreme ones I’d experienced thus far—the rooms were worth the square footage.

Especially knowing that we had the means to take care of Davis no matter what we found out about that powder. I hadn’t worked directly with a lot of potential bioagents—we were an infectious disease unit, not biological weapon developers—but I knew there were too many possibilities. What I’d seen of the powder didn’t look like any of the obvious fakes: flour, baking soda, baking powder, cornstarch, even translucent powder. We’d have to analyze the sample—fast—so we’d know how to treat him.

Because whatever this was—if it was anything—it was definitely treatable. It had to be.

Inside one of our isolation rooms, I completed the handoff with the containment crew, signaling Davis to stay down, as if he had a choice. I secured the door, then returned to undo the seals on his portable isolation unit, lifting the cover off the tube.

Davis still blinked up at me with wide, round eyes, his chest still heaving more heavily than it had that day in the break room.

He needed me to be okay—to make this okay for him. I’d spent so many years in medicine pursuing absolute perfection, but it had never mattered so much before that I perform.

Hiding my own anxiety would definitely be a performance. Not at all easy in a suit that literally locked you in with all your own sweat, soaking in my own personal sauna. But I could do it for Davis.

I placed my hand on his chest. Not that he could feel the human contact through my thick gloves. He clasped his hand over mine and we breathed together, although I was using an oxygen tank. His breathing began to slow to a more normal rate.

Finally, he was calm. I tapped my fingers twice and he released me.

Just breathing together wasn’t going to keep him calm for long. “Welcome to your new home,” I pronounced with all the enthusiasm I could muster.

He sat up and looked around. “Do you have anything with a view?” His voice betrayed only a little fear.

Heavy on the humor then, for both our sakes. “These are our platinum accommodations, Hardcastle. Take it or leave it.”

“Oh, if those are my options—” He swung his legs off the gurney—those hospital gowns were short, because hello, knees—and took two steps toward the door.

“Ha.” I grabbed his arm and towed him back to the gurney that would now be his bed. I could get him settled here, then go to check on the sample’s test. To buy myself time to think, I scrunched his portable isolation unit back into its bag.

“Can you autoclave those?” he asked with a hint of humor.

I stuffed the whole bag into the biohazard bin. “No, they’re single use. And this is the single time I’ve gotten to use one, so thanks for that.”

“Thought I’d brighten your day.”

“Thanks again.” I’d have to lean into a topic that was almost a running joke now: treating Richie McRichPerson just like that. “Okay, sir, time for the tour.” I swept an arm toward a doctor’s stool and the hospital bed. “Here we have your living area, perfect for entertaining guests, an exclusive group that will leave dozens clamoring at your door.” I cast a knowing glance at the entrance and its HEPA gowning booth.

One corner of Davis’s mouth lifted. “I was thinking about moving,” he admitted. I wasn’t sure he was kidding.

“And how can you say no to this? It’s literally not allowed.” I continued with the tour, awkwardly waddling over to wheel the hospital table up to his bed. “Dining area, very plush.”

Davis nodded his approval with real rich person nonchalance.

“We’ve got your full theatre room.” I gestured at the flat-screen fixed to the wall and once again to the hospital bed. I took two steps to grab the tethered remote from its wall mount. “State of the art.”

“Top of the line,” he agreed.

“And of course.” I pointed to the door in one corner. “The luxurious main bath.”

Davis eyed the corner. “Does that soaking tub have jets?”

“Yes, sir, two levels. And... heated... bubbles.”

He stifled a laugh.

“And thepièce de résistance—”

“Ouch. Don’t speak French again.”

“Très désolée.” I hadn’t taken French since high school, but I picked the most American pronunciation possible, leaning into every letter. Finally, I finished my earlier thought, with a grand gesture at the hospital bed yet again. “Your bedroom.”

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