The thermometer beeps—102.8 degrees.
Dr. Kolodny quickly huddles with staff, and before they break up and disperse she orders them to distribute respirator masks to everyone on board. One staff member stays with Kolodny, the largest one, a young, baby-faced Latino man standing well over six feet tall. He stares at Natalie as though he’s terrified of her.
The doctor says to Ramola, “What do you know? You have to tell us.”
Natalie shouts, “No!” Both hands rest atop her belly. Her teeth are gritted, lips pressed tightly together though they flutter, wanting to peel away. Breathing heavily through her nose, head tilted, downcast, not making eye contact with anyone, glaring hard at the seatback in front of her.
The large man and a clinician with a respirator mask in her hand worm past Ramola and speak to Natalie, their instructions droning and monotone. Patients vacate the seats directly in front and behind.
Natalie shouts, “No!” again but doesn’t lift her hands away from her belly, doesn’t resist their putting the mask over her nose and mouth.
Could Ramola convince any of them Natalie has the flu or any number of other viruses that cause fevers? Kolodny will surely insist upon submitting Natalie to a full examination and find the wound on her arm. What lie will Ramola tell then?
Ramola leans in, grabs the doctor’s arm at the elbow, and whispers, “Natalie was bitten on the left forearm by an infected man more than four hours ago. She received the first round of vaccine approximately an hour after exposure. She’s been presenting symptoms of infection for at least an hour, possibly longer.”
Dr. Kolodny says, “Let go of me,” and attempts to twist out of Ramola’s grip.
Natalie barks, “No!” into her mask. The two staff members remain in the area in front of Ramola’s seat, with the large man resting one knee in her chair, and ask Natalie more questions.
Ramola, no longer whispering, says, “I’m sorry we—we had to get on this bus and it was wrong of us—wrong of me to tell you she hadn’t been exposed, and I know she can’t be saved but her child still can. She needs a cesarean section as soon as possible—”
Dr. Kolodny holds up her hands, shakes her head. She twists free and darts up the aisle, almost knocking a woman to the floor.
Ramola calls after her, “You must call ahead. Tell the hospital to prepare for her arrival. Please, this is our last chance.”
Natalie continues yelling, “No!”
Dr. Kolodny is next to the driver and shouts something to him. Whatever she tells him, he does a double take. She repeats herself. The driver does not hand Dr. Kolodny the two-way radio as Ramola hopes. The bus slows and the pneumatic brakes again become hissing snakes.
It’s a smoother, more controlled stop than earlier, although because Ramola is standing she pitches forward and latches onto the headrest of the now-empty seat in front of hers to keep her feet.
Natalie continues yelling. As they rumble to a stop, other passengers fearfully peek over the rows of seats.
Dr. Kolodny walks back down the aisle announcing, “This stop is only temporary. There is no issue on the road ahead of us. Please stay calm. Keep your masks on. We will be on our way soon.” When she reaches Ramola and where the staff continues struggling with quieting Natalie, she says, “Please help Natalie get off the bus safely.”
The rest of the bus goes quiet but for Natalie still shouting, “No!”
Ramola says, “Please. I’m sorry and I should’ve told you—”
“The driver is alerting the police that we are dropping you here, using the home address on the mailbox we parked next to. You and Natalie will be picked up very shortly.” Dr. Kolodny says this while looking at some other area of the bus that neither Natalie nor Ramola occupies.
“We can’t. It’ll be too late. Please.”
“Federal quarantine law is quite clear on this. We cannot risk her infecting others on board, including our six newborns.”
“Doctor—”
“And even if I let you stay, the hospital we’re going to will not take her, and they wouldn’t take us.”
The last part sounds like a lie, has to be a lie. Or is it? Would Kolodny and staff physically remove them from the bus if she refuses to budge? Ramola shouts and appeals to other clinicians on board, all of whom wear the same blinking, blank face of disbelief, of This isn’t supposed to be happening. Ramola then turns to the terrified patients, masked women and their crying babies. Ramola knows the horror on top of the horror is that she and Kolodny are both correct: this bus is Natalie’s child’s last chance and they cannot in good conscience continue to risk the other patients without their consent, particularly as Natalie has become more agitated, more dangerous. Ramola envisions asking each patient if Natalie can stay. Many if not most would say yes, but all of them?
Natalie shrieks in pain as the two staff members yank on her arms, trying to pull her to standing.
Ramola, swollen with a righteous rage at everything, including herself, yells at them to stop and she pounds on the backs of their shoulders with closed fists until they do. Ramola pushes and shoves her way past them to her friend.
Natalie clutches her injured forearm. The fingers on her left hand spasm into a gnarled, arthritic fist. Her eyes roll around the bus’s interior as though she doesn’t recognize where she is, how she got there. She shouts, “Y-You can’t eat her! I know your names!”
Ramola tries to soothe and calm her down, saying, “I’m here. It’s me,” and rests a hand on Natalie’s sizzling forehead. Natalie lifts her head, twists and shakes the hand away. With the mask covering her mouth, Ramola doesn’t know if Natalie attempted to bite her.
She repeats Natalie’s name, leans in so their
