its people—all people.
Caretaker didn’t mean pacifist and pushover, though. Caretaking often meant making the hard choices.
I kept that in mind as I gestured him inside. This man, with the jaw-dropping build and eyes as deep with mystery as the very heart of Africa was just another stray.
The only difference was this one was a skilled stray. A fact I remembered as the jeep horn beeped just as I was closing the door.
My newest stray stabbed a startled and accusing glare at me.
“My foreman,” I quickly explained. “His wife is sick. We were—” A strangled half-laugh escaped despite my best efforts to smother it. The coincidence was mambo , just too crazy. “We’re supposed to be on our way to your clinic. Come on, we’ll go down together.”
The doctor shook his head. “I deliberately didn’t head back there. If the militia still wants me, that’s the first place they’ll go.”
“All right. Then we’ll go to Hasa.”
“On the road? In an open jeep?”
I exhaled sharply in frustration. “What do you suggest then?”
He winced, and I recognized it was from pain not my retort.
“Let me take a look at your foreman’s wife before we make any rash decisions.”
Jamal was halfway up the wide veranda when the doctor and I stepped out. With a stern, “Stand down,” thrown at Gus, I lifted a knee to stop him following as I shut the door. Immediately his nose was against the sidelight, keeping watch on me, ever my guardian.
Jamal was obviously feeling protective himself. His hand curled over the butt of the revolver he wore always at his hip.
“ Sawa-sawa ,” I assured him. “This is Dr. LeSabre. The clinic doctor.”
Jamal eyed the stain of blood on the doctor’s scrubs with suspicion. It only occurred to me I had no proof of the story the stranger told nor anything to validate his claim of being a doctor other than my own intuition. And it was telling me there was nothing false about him. But even if I believed he was a doctor, did I have cause to believe he was a competent one?
> In the jeep, Lisha stretched out in the back seat where Jamal had made her comfortable on a pile of blankets and with a pillow tucked under her tightly braided hair. She tried to return my smile, but couldn’t quite manage as a wave of pain crashed over her.
When I moved aside to let the doctor get a better look, my smile faltered altogether. Maybe it was his own wound keeping his bruised emotions so visible in his dark eyes, but the deep sadness in his expression slammed right into my heart.
I caught one muttered word, “telangiectasia,” before he turned away without so much as touching her.
Jamal and I both crowded him, his profound sadness becoming our gathering fear.
“I just saw this,” he said at last. “In the camp over the ridge.” He laid a hand on Jamal’s shoulder and the look of compassion that overcame him was almost as heartbreaking as the tears that sprang to my foreman’s eyes when the doctor softly confirmed what Jamal already knew deep down. “It could be Subs .”
“You can’t be sure,” I whispered.
“You’re right,” he agreed, “but the odds of finding the same unique symptom in two people in the same locale on the same day for it to be anything else are pretty astronomical. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Then there is nothing to be done?” Jamal’s hollow voice sent shivers of helplessness through me.
“Take her to Hasa. They can make her comfortable. Maybe even try new drugs that might make a difference. We’re still learning about this disease, and it’s possible she can help doctors learn how to fight it. She can still do good, and you can do good for her. Take her to Hasa.”
“It will cost—”
I slid a 10,000-franc note into his thin and shaking hand, then closed my fingers briefly over his. “Give them this to start. I’ll bring more later, once she’s settled.”
“You’ll come soon?”
I nodded toward the doctor. “Once he’s cleaned up and
Caretaker didn’t mean pacifist and pushover, though. Caretaking often meant making the hard choices.
I kept that in mind as I gestured him inside. This man, with the jaw-dropping build and eyes as deep with mystery as the very heart of Africa was just another stray.
The only difference was this one was a skilled stray. A fact I remembered as the jeep horn beeped just as I was closing the door.
My newest stray stabbed a startled and accusing glare at me.
“My foreman,” I quickly explained. “His wife is sick. We were—” A strangled half-laugh escaped despite my best efforts to smother it. The coincidence was mambo , just too crazy. “We’re supposed to be on our way to your clinic. Come on, we’ll go down together.”
The doctor shook his head. “I deliberately didn’t head back there. If the militia still wants me, that’s the first place they’ll go.”
“All right. Then we’ll go to Hasa.”
“On the road? In an open jeep?”
I exhaled sharply in frustration. “What do you suggest then?”
He winced, and I recognized it was from pain not my retort.
“Let me take a look at your foreman’s wife before we make any rash decisions.”
Jamal was halfway up the wide veranda when the doctor and I stepped out. With a stern, “Stand down,” thrown at Gus, I lifted a knee to stop him following as I shut the door. Immediately his nose was against the sidelight, keeping watch on me, ever my guardian.
Jamal was obviously feeling protective himself. His hand curled over the butt of the revolver he wore always at his hip.
“ Sawa-sawa ,” I assured him. “This is Dr. LeSabre. The clinic doctor.”
Jamal eyed the stain of blood on the doctor’s scrubs with suspicion. It only occurred to me I had no proof of the story the stranger told nor anything to validate his claim of being a doctor other than my own intuition. And it was telling me there was nothing false about him. But even if I believed he was a doctor, did I have cause to believe he was a competent one?
> In the jeep, Lisha stretched out in the back seat where Jamal had made her comfortable on a pile of blankets and with a pillow tucked under her tightly braided hair. She tried to return my smile, but couldn’t quite manage as a wave of pain crashed over her.
When I moved aside to let the doctor get a better look, my smile faltered altogether. Maybe it was his own wound keeping his bruised emotions so visible in his dark eyes, but the deep sadness in his expression slammed right into my heart.
I caught one muttered word, “telangiectasia,” before he turned away without so much as touching her.
Jamal and I both crowded him, his profound sadness becoming our gathering fear.
“I just saw this,” he said at last. “In the camp over the ridge.” He laid a hand on Jamal’s shoulder and the look of compassion that overcame him was almost as heartbreaking as the tears that sprang to my foreman’s eyes when the doctor softly confirmed what Jamal already knew deep down. “It could be Subs .”
“You can’t be sure,” I whispered.
“You’re right,” he agreed, “but the odds of finding the same unique symptom in two people in the same locale on the same day for it to be anything else are pretty astronomical. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Then there is nothing to be done?” Jamal’s hollow voice sent shivers of helplessness through me.
“Take her to Hasa. They can make her comfortable. Maybe even try new drugs that might make a difference. We’re still learning about this disease, and it’s possible she can help doctors learn how to fight it. She can still do good, and you can do good for her. Take her to Hasa.”
“It will cost—”
I slid a 10,000-franc note into his thin and shaking hand, then closed my fingers briefly over his. “Give them this to start. I’ll bring more later, once she’s settled.”
“You’ll come soon?”
I nodded toward the doctor. “Once he’s cleaned up and
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