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Kennedy blinked herself awake. How long had she been knocked out? Her eyes were dry, as if her contacts had crusted onto her corneas.
Thirsty. She was thirsty.
“Easy, now.” The voice was garbled somehow, like someone talking at her through a wall of water. An enormous hand covered with a yellow glove held her down.
She tried to ask for a drink, but all that came out was, Wifter.
“Calm down. You were injured, but you’re going to be just fine.”
Kennedy’s eyes traveled up from the hands to the giant rubber suit. The hazmat helmet.
“Where am I?” This time, the words came out more clearly.
“You’re in an isolation unit.”
She blinked as memories coursed and flooded through her brain.
The explosion. The lockdown. The epidemic.
“Am I sick?”
She didn’t know if the healthcare worker was avoiding her gaze or if the helmet just distorted the view.
“Am I sick?” she repeated, assessing her beaten, battered body. Her arm throbbed. She couldn’t turn her head without experiencing a horrific muscle spasm throughout her entire neck. The entire right half of her body felt so heavy she was sure it must be swollen to twice its usual size. A piercing headache. Her heart fluttering slightly and her lungs still stinging from the aftershocks of terror and smoke. Bruises on her hip. An excruciating pain radiating outward from her tailbone. At least she didn’t feel feverish. That must be a good sign.
“No, you’re not sick. This is just a precaution. You were potentially exposed before the accident,” the nurse explained. “We’re treating your injuries in isolation just to be safe.”
It took Kennedy a few seconds to piece everything together, to remember why she’d ended up at the hospital in the first place. The epidemic. The man with the gun. The news reports. “Is Woong ok?”
“The little boy you were babysitting? We’re keeping him under quarantine until we get the lab results back. He’s got the right symptoms for Nipah, but it will be another day until we know for sure. The good news is if you remain symptom-free, you can be released from isolation tomorrow evening.”
Tomorrow? Kennedy didn't even know what day it was. The bomb, the lockdown — how much time had passed? Had she slept a whole day through? Maybe more? Heavy plastic curtains were drawn on all sides of her bed. There were no windows, no clocks. It could just as easily be suppertime Monday night or first thing Wednesday morning or the middle of the night a week later.
Pain pulsed through her temples, behind her eyes, pounding on her optical nerves. She just wanted to sleep. Forget. Wake up in the morning in the Lindgrens’ guest room to find this entire ordeal had been a terrible dream.
The nurse fidgeted with Kennedy’s throbbing arm, adjusting some sort of a bandage. “You just rest up now and try not to worry.”
Try not to worry? After everything she had gone through? The epidemic. The lockdown. The explosion...
“Where’s Dominic?”
The nurse’s face was completely shielded through the thick visor of her hazmat suit.
“The chaplain,” Kennedy pressed. “He was there, too. When can I see him?” Her lungs clenched off, and she coughed trying to force a breath.
“Just calm down now, ok? There’s a detective waiting to talk to you. He’ll fill you in on everything that happened, and I know he’s got some questions for you too. There’s no rush, though. He said he’d wait as long as he needed until you felt like talking.”
“I’m ready now.”
Kennedy felt rather than saw the nurse frown at her. “You just woke up. It might be a good idea to save your strength.”
“I’ll talk to the detective. Answer any questions he’s got.”
“You’ve got some shrapnel in your arm. Cuts on your shoulder. Bruises and burns.”
“I said I’ll talk to him now.”
“Ok.” The nurse’s voice was uncertain, but she pulled back one of the curtains and pointed to the tall man standing on the other side of a thick window. “This is Detective Drisklay. Says you already know him.”
“Yeah.” Kennedy’s voice was flat. The nurse was probably right. She should have slept some more before voluntarily hopping into the witness chair with someone like Drisklay. He held up a Styrofoam coffee cup in silent greeting.
“There’s a phone by your bedside you can use to talk to him through the glass. You sure you’re up for this?” the nurse asked one last time.
Kennedy swallowed. She had to find out what happened to Dominic.
“I’m ready.”