“Where were you on vacation?”
The boys’ father shook his head. “We weren’t on vacation. I was working. We’ve just come back from three months in Somalia. I work for a commercial water-piping company.”
Somalia. The last known place for a natural outbreak of this disease.
“Were any of the locals you came into contact with sick?” There were a million different questions flying around his head but he didn’t want to bombard the parents.
Mrs Keating nodded. “We were in the highlands. A lot of them were sick. But we didn’t think it was anything too serious. We actually wondered if we’d taken a bug to them—we were the first people they’d come into contact with in years.”
His reaction was instinctive. “Step outside, please, Alison.”
“What?” The nurse wrinkled her brow.
He raised his voice, lifting his eyes and fixing them on her, praying she would understand. “Wait outside for me, please, Alison.”
The atmosphere was electric. She was an experienced nurse and could read the expression on his face. She dropped the IV lines and headed for the door.
“Is something wrong?” Mr. Keating started to stand.
Sawyer crossed to the other bed. Jack was lying with his back to him. He wasted no time by pulling the white sheet from across Jack’s chest and tugging gently on his shoulder to pull him round.
Identical. His face was covered. Red, deep-seated round vesicles. All at the same stage of development, a few covering his chest but mainly on his forearms. He opened Jack’s mouth. Inside, his oral mucosa and palate were covered. He checked the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands. More identically formed red spots.
He could feel chills sweeping his body. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. This disease had been eradicated in the seventies. No one had seen this disease since then.
Then a little light bulb went off in his head. Hadn’t there been a suspected outbreak a few years ago that had turned out to be chicken pox? The very thing that this was presumed to be? He ran the list of other possibilities in his head. He knew them off by heart. Anyone who’d ever worked in the DPA did.
But the more he stared at the spots the more convinced he became that it was none of the alternatives.
“How long since the spots appeared?”
The mother and father exchanged glances. “A few days? They had a rash at first then the spots developed. They’ve got much worse in the last day. But the boys had been feeling unwell before that—headaches, backaches, vomiting. We just thought they’d picked up a bug.”
Sawyer felt as if he was in a bad movie. Why him? Why did this have to happen while he was on duty?
Would someone else recognize this? Realize the potential risks? Or would they just chalk it up to a bad dose of chicken pox and discover the consequences later? He’d put all this behind him. He’d walked away and vowed never to be involved in any of this again. He was in the middle of Chicago—not in some far-off country. Things like this didn’t happen here. Or they shouldn’t happen here.
And right now that was he wanted to do again. To walk out that front door and forget he’d ever seen any of this.
He looked at the long inviting corridor outside. He wasn’t a coward. But he didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this. The kind of thing that sucked you in until it squeezed all the breath from you.
A shadow moved outside the door.
But there was the killer. A pregnant nurse standing outside that door. A nurse who had been working with him and had contact with these children. Could he walk away from her?
He glanced upwards. It was almost as if someone had put her here so he couldn’t walk away. His conscience would never allow him to do that.
If only he didn’t know she was pregnant. If only that little bump hadn’t just started to emerge above her scrub trousers. That would make this a whole lot easier.
Then he could walk away.
He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He was a doctor. He had a duty of care. Not just to his colleagues but to these kids.
These very sick kids.
He looked back at the parents. “I need you to think very carefully—this is very important. Did you fly home?”
They both nodded.
“When, exactly, did you first notice the rash on the boys? Before or after you were on the plane?”
The parents looked at each other, screwing up their foreheads and trying to work it out.
A detailed history could wait. He knew enough already. He wasn’t part of the DPA any more. This was their job, not his. The notification part he could handle—setting the wheels in motion so the processes could take over.
Isolation. Containment. Diagnosis. Lab tests. Media furore.
In the meantime he had two sick kids to take care of and staff members to worry about. Let the DPA do their job and he could do his.
He pulled his smart phone from his pocket and took a picture of Jack’s spots and then Ben’s. “Wait here.”
Alison jumped as he flung the door open. “What on earth’s going on?” She matched his steps as he strode down the corridor to Reception. “Don’t you think you can get away with speaking to me like that. I want to know what you think is wrong.” He watched her as subconsciously her hands went to her stomach. This day was just about to get a whole lot worse.
“Did you touch them?”
“What?” She wrinkled her nose.
“The spots. Did you touch the children’s spots?”
She must have read the fear he was trying to hide behind his eyes. “I think I did.” She looked as if she might burst into tears. Then realization dawned. “I think I had gloves on.” Her voice grew more determined. “No, I’m sure I had gloves on.”
“And when you took them off, did you touch any other part of your skin?”
Her face crumpled. “I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.”
His hands landed on her shoulders and he steered her into the nearest free room. He knocked the water on with his elbows and pulled the hand scrub over, opening up a scrub brush for her. “Scrub as if you were going to Theatre and don’t stop until I tell you.”
She looked pale, as if she might keel over. But her reactions were automatic, pumping the scrub, covering her hands, wrists and forehands and moving them methodically under the running water.
He watched the clock. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four.
“Sawyer?”
He nodded. “You can stop now.”
“Do you know what it is?” She was drying her hands now.
“I think I do. I’m just praying that I’m wrong. Come with me.”
They reached the desk. Miriam had her back to them and was chatting loudly on the phone.
Sawyer leaned across the desk and cut the call.
She spun around. “What are you doing?”
“We’re closed.”
“What?” Several heads in the surrounding area turned.
“You don’t have any authority—”
“I do. Get me Dr. Simpson, the chief of staff, on the phone.” He turned to face the rest of the staff. “Listen up, folks.