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4:27 A.M.-A REFUGEE CAMP IN NORTHERN JORDAN
It was painful even to open her eyes.
And when she did, Erin Bennett had no idea where she was. It didn't seem like
the tent that had been her home for the past seven months. Then again, it
didn't smell as bad either.
There was a distinct odor to the room, but she couldn't place it.
Her temples throbbed. It hurt too much to think, too much to figure out where
she was or why. So she began to drift away . . . back . . . back . . . to a
simpler time than this.
Suddenly she found herself standing behind her desk in her penthouse office,
high atop
London, overlooking the Thames. In the window, she could see a reflection of
herself in her black suit and black pumps, her hair back, her nails done. She
turned and saw her team gathered around her in that high-tech financial war
room she had once designed and run for Global Strategix. The satellite boxes.
The shortwave radios. The bank of television monitors. The high-speed Internet
access and fiber optic cables, streaming thirty million phone calls across the
Atlantic and back in a single second. The little ceramic plaque sitting on her
desk, the one that read, "Know well the condition of thy flocks." And there
was that smell again. Perfume? Cleaning supplies?
Whatever it was, it was stinging her throat, making her eyes water, and
forcing her against her will back to some semblance of reality. She wasn't in
London, she realized, and the disappointment spread over her like a cloud.
Erin struggled to open her eyes again, and when she did, she noticed a clock
on the wall. It was four thirty, though whether it was morning or night she
had no idea. She tried to recall the past few hours, but it was all a blur.
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Slowly, and with great difficulty, she turned her head to the right, then to
the left. Every muscle in her body ached. Her throat was on fire.
At first she felt like she was burning up. After a few moments, she found
herself chilled. Her arms were covered with goose bumps. An IV needle was
jammed in one of them, covered in tubing and tape. Even her eyes ached in
their sockets. But the mental fog was lifting a bit. She was in the hospital.
Jon had brought her here. But why? What was happening to her?
She groped around for a while and finally found a call button, which she
pressed
repeatedly. A few moments later, a tall, gentle-looking black man probably in
his late fifties or early sixties, she figured opened the door. He had a warm,
friendly smile and a cup of water and some pills in his hands. Erin squinted
and tried to read his ID tag: "Francis
P. Kwamee, MD." It said he was from Accra, Ghana. It said he worked for the
World Health
Organization. All well and good, but where was Jon?
Erin tried to ask, but the pain was too much. The doctor spoke instead.
"How are you feeling, ma'am?"
Not well enough to answer. She just shook her head.
"Don't you worry, Mrs. Bennett," the doctor said. "We're going to take care of
you right. But first, I must say, you have a pretty eager visitor out there in
the lobby. May I let him in? I don't think he can wait much longer."
Erin's heart leaped and she smiled weakly.
"Very well," Dr. Kwamee said. "But I do need you to take your medicine first."
She nodded slowly and with his help took the pills, despite the pain of
swallowing.
When Dr. Kwamee stepped out of the room and she was alone again, Erin closed
her eyes and took a deep breath. She thanked the Lord for being merciful to
her, for keeping her safe, and she asked Him to bless Jon and hold him close
to His heart. As she said amen, the door wung open and she quickly found
herself in the arms of the man she loved, and s all was well.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" Bennett asked as he sat beside her on the bed and
gently stroked her hands.
Erin desperately wanted to tell him. She desperately wanted to talk to him, to
catch up with him and find out how he was doing, but she winced as she tried.
"That's okay; just rest," he assured her with a soothing bedside manner that
she sensed she was going to need a lot of over the next few days.
She was privately grateful there wasn't a mirror to be found. She knew she
must look horrible, but Jon didn't seem to care, and it made her love him all
the more.
"By the way," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "has anyone told you how
beautiful you look today?"
She tried to shake her head.
"Good." He smiled. "I'd have to punch them in the nose."
Her smile broadened, and as it did she finally felt the new pain relievers
coursing through her veins. Could the pills really be working so quickly?
Maybe it was something in the IV instead. At any rate, her eyelids were
getting heavy, though she was determined not to lose this moment.
"So, did the doc say anything? Besides, of course, how desperate I was to see
you?" he asked.
She shook her head ever so slightly.
"Dr. Kwamee didn't give you your diagnosis yet?"
Again she shook her head just enough to make the point.
"He didn't give you your prognosis?"
"No," she managed to whisper.
"Then perhaps I should fill you in."
Erin felt herself drifting, but she did everything she could to focus as Jon
explained that she had bacterial meningitis, explained how it was affecting
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her, how she would be treated, and how long it would probably take to recover.
Erin was relieved to hear it wasn't
something worse, and she squeezed his hand when he was finished to thank him
for being the bearer of such good news. After all, God only knew what other
diseases she could have contracted in this place. She had made out like a
bandit, sh thought, and hoped now e she could let herself drift away in a
long and peaceful nap. She could see Jon soon enough.
But she really needed to sleep, perchance to dream. . . .
But Jon wasn't finished.
"Actually, sweetheart, there's a little bit more," he said.
He had a curious look, she thought as if he was hiding something, though
something not altogether bad. It almost looked like he was trying to look
grim.
"What?" she whispered.
"You sure you want to know?" Jon asked.
The drugs were making her feel so groggy, so dreamy. But yes she nodded; she
wanted to know, and soon, before she slipped away for another few hours.
"You're sure?" he teased. "It's been a long night, after all, and you really
need your rest."
Her eyes pleaded with him to tell her, and as always, it didn't take much to
win him over.
"Very well, Erin Christina Bennett," he began, leaning in close and kissing
her softly on the forehead. "I have the pleasure of suggesting that you not
make any plans for May third of next year . . . plans that don't include being
in a hospital, that is."
She had no idea what he was talking about. She wanted to, but it didn't
compute, and Jon's face was already beginning to blur. Her eyes were closing.
She tried to hold on, tried to think of what she might possibly have planned
for May of next year. She blinked hard and tried to refocus, but it was a
battle she was quickly losing. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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