Chapter Four

One Week Later

February 7th

WAYLAN

The machines whirled in the background of Waylan’s chaotic thoughts, trying fervently to prove his theory that the illness spreading amongst Vihaans was more than it first seemed. Ideally, they would prove the opposite.

Every day more patients arrived with similar symptoms of varying severity, and Waylan was at a loss of how to treat them. He’d tested the most logical of choices, running panels for every Dnaran sickness he could think of with similar symptoms: the flu, pneumonia, meningitis, Lyme disease, and even carbon monoxide poisoning. Every time they came back clear, he moved onto the unusual, illogical choices to cover all bases: shingles, STIs, viral infections or autoimmune diseases.

Today, he was being overly cautious and running panels for zoonotic diseases: avian flu, rabies, salmonella and fungal infections. Since Tathe had recently presented with an illness, Waylan considered the possibility, as most of the sick patients had a second nature. Their kalou, caly or m’weko could have caught and transferred the infection to their human side.

Waylan wasn’t ready to rule anything out. Since he was running low on Dnaran options, he prepared a list of Vihaan panels to run once the machines had finished their six-hour cycle. Considering his patients’ range of species, he kept each region in mind for the next round of tests.

The caly ‘sleeping death’―what Vihaans called leiyia―was caused by eating decaying meat, sparking a sickness so severe that once the patient slipped into a stage of sleeping for twenty-four hours it was only a matter of days before they died. He was more familiar with the kalou disease, rochver, triggered by drinking parasites from water. Rochver left the patient weak, fatigued and lingering in what was loosely translated into ‘sick by spring, dead by the rains’.

The third and final option was something Waylan only tested to ease his mind. None of the patients presented the worst symptoms, but he couldn’t lie and say none of the signs pointed toward the m’weko condition. They had a history of suffering from chishe, ‘the sickness’, resulting in horrific half-transitions into their m’weko and violent fevers. If that was the cause, Waylan and his patients were in trouble.

Staring at the list of possible tests in his future, Waylan pushed his seat from the desk and crossed to grab his jacket from the coat rack. He couldn’t sit here for the next six hours waiting to learn what fate awaited his patients.

With Tabitha hosting her book club and preparing a book release for next month, and Eli sleeping at a friend’s house to finish a school project, Waylan didn’t need to worry about going home. He’d leave the hospital to grab a coffee, knowing he had all night to tinker with his tests.

Two steps from the laboratory, Davy lifted his head from a microscope. “Going out, Doc?”

Waylan rolled his eyes. “Yes. I’m here all night, and there are tests running. I’m heading to the soup kitchen,” he explained, as there were so many homeless who couldn’t get to proper healthcare. Some were afraid of the hospital, Dnarans aware the staff were ‘other’, the Vihaans afraid of meeting someone who might hurt or recognise them.

Waylan had seen many sad cases of Vihaans who preferred to live rough because they couldn’t adjust to Dnara. Kalou who couldn’t abide being human but couldn’t get their animal half back because they’d been banished and lost that connection when they crossed the doorway. He never wanted anyone to suffer, but he’d found that some people were soothed by his presence. The proximity of his inner kalou calmed even the most paranoid Vihaans, giving Waylan the chance to treat them or guide them to help.

“Do you want a hand?” Davy stood from his desk, surprising Waylan. Davy never liked going to the shelter, food bank, or the soup kitchen. Davy had lived on the streets for his first year after arriving in Dnara and wouldn’t speak of his experiences, and Waylan never pressed the issue. The fact he was offering tonight was surprising.

“Are you sure?”

Davy slipped his hands into his dungaree pockets. “I’m ready.”

Waylan smiled, proud of him for the admission. “Get your coat. I plan to stop for coffee beforehand,” he said, sure that coffee and a doughnut from the local bakery would lift his mood.

“Great.”

*

CHANNON

He walked into the run-down factory a mile from the hospital, carrying three trays laden with hot food. He’d been tempted to head to Chalmerton, to check if Waylan was working or if his colleagues were eating adequately for their night shift, but Channon didn’t risk it. He shouldn’t be seeking more time with Waylan.

His time was better spent here, where the soup kitchen was set for the night, supplying hot food and helping hands to a worthy cause. The director, Lovano, nodded a greeting as Channon walked in but didn’t stop to chat. He never did, always moving from one conversation to the other, drifting from one job to the next.

He set the trays in the kitchen, washed his hands and grabbed an apron. Channon was about to arrange food onto plates when he heard a familiar voice. A cluster of people had congregated around a table and chair at the side of the room, but the crowd was so thick he couldn’t see the reason for their interest.

“What’s going on?” he asked Fleur, the woman who helped the food station.

“Doctor Robell is holding a clinic,” she said, smiling in obvious approval as she glanced at the crowd. “He pops in to do basic health checks and has portable devices to run tests for people who can’t get to Chalmerton.”

Channon returned Fleur’s smile. “Looks like we picked the right night to stop by. You’re busier than usual,” he said, realising more people were pouring in the front doors.

“We always get more people coming in once word spreads that Doctor Robell is holding a clinic.” She didn’t seem annoyed about the extra work. In fact, Fleur probably knew better than Channon that this might be the first or only time these people would see a doctor this year.

“Does he come regularly?”

“He doesn’t always come personally, but his staff pop in to volunteer, bring bags of shopping to donate to the food bank and take handfuls of our leaflets to the clinic to hand out whenever they see someone who may need us.”

Fleur walked away with four plates loaded with food perfectly balanced on her forearms. She was probably used to Waylan’s generosity as she was a stalwart of the soup kitchen. Channon wasn’t—maybe because he’d never crossed paths with Waylan or his staff in the soup kitchens or shelters he’d visited. He barely got more than a glimpse of the staff from across the street when they arrived or left the hospital.

It was nice to know that the man who had captured his attention was as caring and philanthropic with his time as he was with his medical care. Waylan was like a thorn in his paw, constantly dropping reminders at unexpected times that he was charming and available. Just when Channon thought he was immune to the pain, Waylan became a physical representation of the vast possibilities.

Unlike when he dated Bryan who didn’t like him ‘giving away’ his time or resources, or when Frasier insisted he charge the shelter for his time or stop going, Waylan understood his calling. He would see what Channon could offer and why he wanted to help and would probably insist on joining him to offer his time and abilities.

The fact one appearance from Waylan could fill a shelter of this size said a lot about the man’s skill and compassionate nature. The people wouldn’t welcome him or care about his opinion unless they trusted Waylan, and that meant he must have proven himself, perhaps more than once.

Charmed by his benevolence, Channon got to work unpacking the trays. He grabbed the massive flask of hot chocolate he’d prepared in the van and poured until the steam rose in tempting plumes. Taking two cups in one hand, he added a plate to the crook of his arm and grabbed another two cups. Fleur returned in time to offer a smile and lay a second plate on his arm.

He stopped to speak to people, glad to be recognised and greeted by name by familiar faces. Channon made sure to exchange small talk, to smile and be more sociable because he might be one of the only friendly faces these people saw today. He tried never to forget how hard their lives were, how dark the world was. If he could make their day better with a quick chat, a hot drink, and a full belly, he could go home and sleep well, knowing he’d done all he could.

Life wasn’t easy for many people, whether they chose to walk away from their lives or were forced out, lost, or abandoned to their fate. Channon fought to always remember that every person he met had a story, problems and secrets, and it wasn’t his business to know what they were. He wasn’t any different. He had secrets, a past and memories he didn’t share with anyone, even…especially…Waylan.

*

TWENTY PLATES AND twice as many cups of hot chocolate later, the flood of people had lessened to the point where Channon grabbed a plate with hot rolls and three mugs of coffee to take across to Waylan’s table.

He couldn’t avoid him all night.

As the night had progressed, he’d seen another man with Waylan, both working hard to treat as many people as possible before another influx of bodies doubled the queue. Channon had distracted the waiting patients with hot food and drinks, but there were so many he couldn’t keep track.

During a rare lull, Channon set two coffee cups down and was instantly pinned by Waylan’s alert stare. He nudged one of the cups toward his colleague. “Coffee and bacon rolls,” he said, laying the single plate in the middle of their table and taking the chair meant for patients. “You look run ragged and need a break, so pretend I’m your patient.”

Waylan visibly sagged in his seat. “Mother bless you,” he said, lifting the cup for a sip.

The look he shot Channon over the table made his trousers unexpectedly tight. He shifted in his seat while his colleague practically inhaled the bacon roll. “There’s more food if you want. I’m just used to this one not eating much.”

The man glanced at Waylan. “You’d never know he was Vihaan,” he quipped, already standing to accept the offer.

Channon liked the guy’s tenacity, being brave enough to tease Waylan to his face. The fact he didn’t look surprised meant it must be the running joke at the hospital. “I thought it was my cooking.”

The assistant snorted, sipping his coffee with a meaningful glance at Waylan that made him blush. “Nah. The doc loves your cooking. He’s always bringing in bags of your food for us to share.”

From the glance Waylan shot him, worried and nervous, Channon realised the various bundles of sandwiches, rolls, and noodle boxes he’d been shoving on Waylan had been gifted to a good cause. He’d always known Waylan was a generous man, even if that meant taking less so that others could benefit, so he chose not to be disappointed his gifts had been shared. Channon had met some of the worst men: selfish, egotistical, paranoid and greedy. He’d seen so many negative traits that it was nice to meet someone whose only real flaw was kindness.

“I am starving though,” the assistant said, sipping coffee. “You don’t mind, Doc?”

“No, Davy. Take your time.” Waylan pushed his glasses with the tip of his middle finger, a move that always made Channon smile. “We can get take-out for the rest of the staff when we leave.” Waylan waited until his assistant was out of earshot before leaning in. “This is the first time Davy has come in two years. He used to live on the streets,” he explained, putting a new slant on the man’s calm, relaxed attitude. “I wasn’t sure if he was ready, but he’s doing remarkably well. I just feel like I can’t do anything to help because I don’t know what his experience was like.”

The way he shrugged, glancing at Davy with sad eyes, made Channon want to take his hand. “He seems to be doing fine.”

Waylan smiled and his heart fluttered. The man was hardly a model but there was something about his innocent joy that melted Channon and charmed him as much now as the first day they met.