“Like I said earlier, you’re most certainly dehydrated. We really should have you hooked up to an IV to replenish your fluids.”
“I feel hot, like I have a fever. Put your hand on my forehead. Come on. Please. You tell me I’m not hot.”
On the floor above them, there is more banging and shaking, as though there are giants up there stomping, searching for bones to grind for their bread.
“My hand cannot divine temperature.”
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you to feel my forehead.” Natalie gets off the bed and walks over to Ramola.
Using a tone reserved only for the most obstinate parents of patients, Ramola says, “Natalie, dear, I will take your temperature with a proper thermometer as soon as our floor is secured. I—”
Natalie grabs Ramola’s hand and slaps it over her forehead.
“I can’t feel anything through my gloves.”
“Take them off.”
“You know I don’t go around feeling foreheads at the clinic. This is hardly—”
“Just tell me. Do I feel warm?”
Ramola sighs (Natalie returns her sigh) and shakes her head. She takes off both gloves and puts her right hand on Natalie’s forehead. And it does feel warm; it feels warmer the longer her hand lingers. When Ramola was sick as a child, her mum would consult the oral thermometer but would not diagnose a fever until after she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and cheeks. Mum would then announce in an exaggerated English accent, “You’re a little boiler, you are.”
Ramola says, “Perhaps you’re a tad warm.” She flips her hand over briefly. Looking up into Natalie’s face, it is difficult to not read infection in the redness and glassiness of her eyes, the red splotches on her skin. “Not outrageously so. My hands are cold from being in the gloves.” Ramola pulls away and rubs her hands together. They are not cold. “It would be perfectly normal to have an elevated temperature given the stress.”
Natalie groans and goes back for her bag. She plucks out the thermometer and aims it at her head again.
Over the intercom: “Paging Dr. Firestone to the cafeteria.”
Natalie lowers the thermometer without looking at the temperature reading. She says, “Seriously? Dr. Firestone?”
Strobing lights flash, followed by the automated, rhythmic wail of the fire alarm.
Natalie says, “This isn’t good.”
“No, it’s not ideal.” None of this is ideal. None of this is good. Ramola closes her eyes for a moment and rubs her hands together and they are as clammy as Natalie’s forehead. You’re a little boiler, you are. Ramola pulls the radio out of her pocket.
Natalie is standing and turning from side to side, as though searching for an escape route. She rattles off a blur of questions. “Do we stay? Do they make us go stand outside? What about my C-section?”
Ramola hasn’t worked in a large hospital since her residency, and their fire-alarm drills have become fuzzy bits of marginalia. She remembers that if evacuations are necessary, most staff help ambulatory patients to the exits, while only a skeleton crew remains with the patients who are not so easily moved. Ramola halfheartedly (and not very convincingly) explains that hospitals are “defend in place” buildings that have fire protections built into them. They likely won’t have to evacuate the building. They might be moved to another area within the wing, or to another floor, however. She knows her calm recitation belies the panic and despair she feels; all the best-laid plans of incident commanders and infectious disease specialists and chief medical officers—their rigorous emergency-response logistics and government protocols—cannot prevent disaster, cannot save everyone, and perhaps cannot save Natalie.
Natalie slumps and sits on the edge of the bed. She wipes her eyes with the back of her right hand and then rubs her belly. She says, “Are they still getting that obstetrician to help me?”
Ramola tunes the radio to channel 2, presses the button, and says, “Hello, Dr. Awolesi, or Central Control? Hello? This is Dr. Ramola Sherman in Room 217. Are we evacuating ambulatory patients? Please advise.”
“That’s me. Ambulatory patient.” It’s a Natalie-style wisecrack but is cold and inflectionless.
Dr. Awolesi answers almost immediately. “Dr. Sherman, only visitors and kitchen staff on the first floor are being evacuated currently. You are to remain in your room for now, but we may be moving you. The situation is—” The long pause becomes a break.
Ramola drops the radio away from her mouth and says, “Fluid?” unable to resist completing the sentence.
“Fucked,” Natalie says. “Ask her if they’re still going to do the C-section.”
Ramola does as asked. Dr. Awolesi responds with, “I’m working on it. Hang tight.”
The alarm stops. The lights continue to flash.
Natalie grabs the empty blue plastic cup from the bed tray table, stands, and shuffles past Ramola. She says, “I’m going to drink more sink water. Or throw up. Or both.” She ducks inside the bathroom, does not shut the door, and turns on the sink.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, I can manage both.”
Ramola paces and tunes the radio to the open channel. From the harried chatter she determines the fire in the cafeteria is not the main concern, but a second one at a nurses’ station on the third floor is. She tunes back to the second channel so as not to miss a message or instruction from Dr. Awolesi.
Natalie walks out of the bathroom holding the cup of water, her face scrunched up. “Ugh, I need, like, some regular, non-sink water. This tastes so gross. Almost like old eggs. I can smell it. Disgusting.” She puts the cup on the table tray.
Ramola intends to say something about getting her bottled water soon but does not. She goes to the bathroom sink, fills her own cup, and takes a sip.
Natalie calls out, “It’s awful, right?”
There is that overly chlorinated taste one associates with unfiltered tap water, but it’s not overbearing.
