Chapter 31
Six Days, Six Hours, Twenty-Nine Minutes
"I can't feel my toes," Ebdon Finkle said.
Reaching down, Olga squeezed the man's exposed right foot under her gloved hand. Trapped with her suit, she couldn't tell whether his skin was burning hot or icy cold. Slowly, she released and twitched her fingers together once more, pinching the man's flesh.
"Did you feel that?"
"I don't know," he answered. "Did you touch my feet?"
She stood upright, staring down at the old man. She studied his expression. Through her protective faceplate, she saw the lines of fear etched cleanly into his forehead. His eyes red, the man sweated beads of water from every pore on his face. She thought long about what she should say, what counsel she could offer a man who knew he was dying from something she didn't have the ability to stop, and she shook her head.
"I squeezed your toes," she finally confessed.
"Then I guess I didn't feel it."
"Are you telling me that you didn't feel anything, Mr. Finkle? No sensation whatsoever?"
"Is that normal?"
She considered the question. "Mr. Finkle ... I think you would agree that these circumstances don't approach any possible definition of the word 'normal.'"
Something about the way she said it made him smile. Lying flat on his back, he shrugged as best he could. "Maybe I felt something."
She smiled back. He was being a good patient. "That's good to hear."
Ebdon breathed deeply, all the while his gasps growing deeper. She guessed that he intentionally controlled his breaths in order to maintain his composure or a measure of relaxation. People suffering from panic attacks often did the same. It was called 'distraction therapy,' and, to her surprise, it appeared to be working. Despite the rapid progress of infection in others who undergone exposure minutes later than the black man, Olga thought his condition was remarkably stable. Was it his practiced breathing, or was it the wisdom that came with age? Whatever it was, it helped, but she suspected it wouldn't delay his eventual submission. Still, Ebdon Finkle was a proud man – a man who built himself up as Deep South restaurateur while raised in a three-bedroom home along with his thirteen brothers and sisters. She admired him, admired his strength and his courage in this dark hour. With each passing bit of conversation, she found herself liking the man more and more ... and that affection only certified the rising dread in her heart.
Looking away, she glanced around the facility. Through the murky plastic sheeting, she could barely see the other medical technicians tended to the others – the NSA's Temporal Response Team – all of them suffering the effects of temporal infection. There, not very far away, she made out the familiar shape of Channing Michelson. He was tall – much taller than any of the med techs – and she recognized his form leaning over one of the NSA field agents. She wondered if he knew the man ... or was he merely studying what everyone associated to BackStep had grown to fear most.
"Olga?"
"Yes, Mr. Finkle?"
He closed his eyes for a moment. She watched as his eyelids rippled from the effect of his eyeballs moving back and forth under the tissue. "I think ... I think that there's definitely some feeling in my toes again."
"Really?"
"Yes, ma'am. I sense a chill."
Given the likelihood of the illness wracking his body, she didn't know whether this was a good sign or not. Stepping toward the foot of the bed, she reached out and grabbed one of his toes. Wiggling it, she tried, "This little piggy went to the marketplace."
"That's 'market,'" he corrected.
"I'm sorry?"
"That nursery song," he explained, opening his eyes. "You're getting it all wrong, and nothing annoys me more than people who can't get the words to a song right." He sighed tiredly. "You're supposed to sing, 'this little piggy went to the market.' Not marketplace. It's market."
Grimacing, she moaned. "Mr. Finkle, can I make a confession?"
"I'm listening."
"I've never been very good with your American colloquialisms."
"Our what?"
She shook her head. "Never mind." Again, she pinched his smallest toe. "Can you feel that?"
His expression blanked. Then, a broad smile lit up half his face. "Yes, I did, Dr. Vukavitch."
"That's good news," she reported excitedly. "It would seem that – despite your fever – you are remaining stable."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"I say it only because it is unexpected ... but it is still welcome."
"What about the others?"
"The others?"
"Yes," he said. Feeling stronger from her reaction, he lifted his head and glanced toward the nearest wall of protective sheeting. "Those men and women who came for Frank. How are they doing?"
Olga knew it was best to keep the truth from the man. She refused to dampen his spirits now that he was feeling good.
"They're ... doing the best they can, Mr. Finkle."
He looked up at her. "That didn't sound like they were doing fine."
She swallowed, realizing she never was any good at disguising her feelings. Allowing herself the reflection, she understood that that single trait was what made her so obviously attracted to Channing ... and, before him, to Frank.
Maybe love was best shared with those who were truly loved.
"Mr. Finkle," she began, placing a hand on his chest, "I really shouldn't discuss the condition of the other patients. I think you know that all of them are suffering from the same exposure that your body is currently experiencing."
"It's gonna kill me, isn't it, doctor?"
The bulk of her expression hidden under the CDC protective suit, Olga knew that her fears were still utterly transparent.
"Let's not talk about death, Mr. Finkle."
"Why not?" he asked. "I'm not afraid. I reached a point a few years ago where I realized that it was bound to happen, whether I smoked one too many pipes of tobacco or if I just sat there waiting for a meteor to come crashing out of the sky and take me out in a blaze of glory." He frowned. "It's just that ... I'd hate to see this destroy so many others."
Fighting back the tears, Olga brought her hand from his chest to his chin. "Then let us agree – you and I – that we will not talk about death unless it becomes absolutely necessary." Composing herself, she locked her eyes with his. "This will be good for both of us. Agreed?"
Resting his head back onto his pillow, the old man nodded.
"I guess that the doctor knows best," he teased.
End of Chapter 31
Six Days, Six Hours, Twenty-Nine Minutes
"I can't feel my toes," Ebdon Finkle said.
Reaching down, Olga squeezed the man's exposed right foot under her gloved hand. Trapped with her suit, she couldn't tell whether his skin was burning hot or icy cold. Slowly, she released and twitched her fingers together once more, pinching the man's flesh.
"Did you feel that?"
"I don't know," he answered. "Did you touch my feet?"
She stood upright, staring down at the old man. She studied his expression. Through her protective faceplate, she saw the lines of fear etched cleanly into his forehead. His eyes red, the man sweated beads of water from every pore on his face. She thought long about what she should say, what counsel she could offer a man who knew he was dying from something she didn't have the ability to stop, and she shook her head.
"I squeezed your toes," she finally confessed.
"Then I guess I didn't feel it."
"Are you telling me that you didn't feel anything, Mr. Finkle? No sensation whatsoever?"
"Is that normal?"
She considered the question. "Mr. Finkle ... I think you would agree that these circumstances don't approach any possible definition of the word 'normal.'"
Something about the way she said it made him smile. Lying flat on his back, he shrugged as best he could. "Maybe I felt something."
She smiled back. He was being a good patient. "That's good to hear."
Ebdon breathed deeply, all the while his gasps growing deeper. She guessed that he intentionally controlled his breaths in order to maintain his composure or a measure of relaxation. People suffering from panic attacks often did the same. It was called 'distraction therapy,' and, to her surprise, it appeared to be working. Despite the rapid progress of infection in others who undergone exposure minutes later than the black man, Olga thought his condition was remarkably stable. Was it his practiced breathing, or was it the wisdom that came with age? Whatever it was, it helped, but she suspected it wouldn't delay his eventual submission. Still, Ebdon Finkle was a proud man – a man who built himself up as Deep South restaurateur while raised in a three-bedroom home along with his thirteen brothers and sisters. She admired him, admired his strength and his courage in this dark hour. With each passing bit of conversation, she found herself liking the man more and more ... and that affection only certified the rising dread in her heart.
Looking away, she glanced around the facility. Through the murky plastic sheeting, she could barely see the other medical technicians tended to the others – the NSA's Temporal Response Team – all of them suffering the effects of temporal infection. There, not very far away, she made out the familiar shape of Channing Michelson. He was tall – much taller than any of the med techs – and she recognized his form leaning over one of the NSA field agents. She wondered if he knew the man ... or was he merely studying what everyone associated to BackStep had grown to fear most.
"Olga?"
"Yes, Mr. Finkle?"
He closed his eyes for a moment. She watched as his eyelids rippled from the effect of his eyeballs moving back and forth under the tissue. "I think ... I think that there's definitely some feeling in my toes again."
"Really?"
"Yes, ma'am. I sense a chill."
Given the likelihood of the illness wracking his body, she didn't know whether this was a good sign or not. Stepping toward the foot of the bed, she reached out and grabbed one of his toes. Wiggling it, she tried, "This little piggy went to the marketplace."
"That's 'market,'" he corrected.
"I'm sorry?"
"That nursery song," he explained, opening his eyes. "You're getting it all wrong, and nothing annoys me more than people who can't get the words to a song right." He sighed tiredly. "You're supposed to sing, 'this little piggy went to the market.' Not marketplace. It's market."
Grimacing, she moaned. "Mr. Finkle, can I make a confession?"
"I'm listening."
"I've never been very good with your American colloquialisms."
"Our what?"
She shook her head. "Never mind." Again, she pinched his smallest toe. "Can you feel that?"
His expression blanked. Then, a broad smile lit up half his face. "Yes, I did, Dr. Vukavitch."
"That's good news," she reported excitedly. "It would seem that – despite your fever – you are remaining stable."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"I say it only because it is unexpected ... but it is still welcome."
"What about the others?"
"The others?"
"Yes," he said. Feeling stronger from her reaction, he lifted his head and glanced toward the nearest wall of protective sheeting. "Those men and women who came for Frank. How are they doing?"
Olga knew it was best to keep the truth from the man. She refused to dampen his spirits now that he was feeling good.
"They're ... doing the best they can, Mr. Finkle."
He looked up at her. "That didn't sound like they were doing fine."
She swallowed, realizing she never was any good at disguising her feelings. Allowing herself the reflection, she understood that that single trait was what made her so obviously attracted to Channing ... and, before him, to Frank.
Maybe love was best shared with those who were truly loved.
"Mr. Finkle," she began, placing a hand on his chest, "I really shouldn't discuss the condition of the other patients. I think you know that all of them are suffering from the same exposure that your body is currently experiencing."
"It's gonna kill me, isn't it, doctor?"
The bulk of her expression hidden under the CDC protective suit, Olga knew that her fears were still utterly transparent.
"Let's not talk about death, Mr. Finkle."
"Why not?" he asked. "I'm not afraid. I reached a point a few years ago where I realized that it was bound to happen, whether I smoked one too many pipes of tobacco or if I just sat there waiting for a meteor to come crashing out of the sky and take me out in a blaze of glory." He frowned. "It's just that ... I'd hate to see this destroy so many others."
Fighting back the tears, Olga brought her hand from his chest to his chin. "Then let us agree – you and I – that we will not talk about death unless it becomes absolutely necessary." Composing herself, she locked her eyes with his. "This will be good for both of us. Agreed?"
Resting his head back onto his pillow, the old man nodded.
"I guess that the doctor knows best," he teased.
End of Chapter 31