Satisfied, he placed the journal on the floor beside his cot and eyed the objects that lay beside him on the gray wool blanket. This is it, he thought. The moment he had planned for two months.
He picked up the syringe, held it to the light, and gently rotated it between two fingers, examining the amber liquid inside. Despite the snow and the cold February wind that lashed at the exterior of the cinder block building, it felt warm inside. A trickle of sweat eased down his neck. He laid the syringe aside, planted his elbows on his knees, rocked forward, and buried his sweat-slicked face in his equally damp hands. He swallowed hard, attempting to suppress the uneasy feeling that wound around his gut.
No, this wasn’t the time for self-doubt. He had thought this through, every contingency considered.
The air seemed thick and sweet and his heart thumped almost audibly as he stretched the rubber surgical tubing tightly around his arm. Three pumps of his fist and a thick purple vein swelled in the soft recess of his elbow. After a quick swipe with an alcohol swab, he felt only a slight sting as the beveled needle slid beneath his skin and popped into the distended vessel. He released the tourniquet and smoothly depressed the syringe’s plunger, sweeping the sallow liquid forward. A warm, paresthetic tingling crept up his arm and into his chest. He yanked the needle free, placed a dry cotton ball over the puncture site, and folded his arm across his chest.
Closing his eyes, he lay back on his cot, unsure what to expect. Breathing slowly and deeply, he willed himself to relax. His heartbeat, if a little stronger than usual, remained steady. A vague twinge of nausea rose in his gut and a fine patina of cold sweat frosted his skin. These sensations slowly receded and he felt his anxiety slip away.
It was five minutes before the first wave of fever and shaking chills racked him. His lips, his hands, and then his entire body shook and a new, stronger wave of nausea gripped him. An acidic burning swelled in his chest and pushed upward into his throat. Sweat poured from every pore, his breath a series of ragged gasps, and his heart fluttered an irregular rhythm.
Just as the fear that he might die swelled within him, the fever and chills began to dissipate. He laid there, his sweat-soaked shirt pasted to his skin. Exhaustion pressed him into the cot’s thin mattress. Thank God that’s over, he thought.
Then, the second wave struck.
He endured four more episodes of burning fevers and icy chills, gripping nausea and soaking sweats, each mercifully milder than the previous one, until finally they abated and fatigue pulled him into a deep exhausted sleep.