Departure by A. G. Riddle Page B

the ground. But the Stonehenge that towers before me now is no ruin. It looks like it was finished yesterday.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Harper
    I AM A BOILING BAG OF MEAT. MEAT soup inside a fragile skin shell.
    The fever is consuming me. I’ve had the flu, and my mum had pneumonia three winters ago. This is neither. This is bad. I’m sick, and scared.
    Here inside the first-class cabin, the world around me flickers past in brief glimpses between sleep and foggy awareness.
    The doctor’s face floats before me.
    â€œCan you hear me, Harper?”
    â€œYeah.” My voice is raspy, barely audible.
    â€œYour infection is getting worse. It’s coming from your leg. Do you understand?”
    I nod.
    â€œI cleaned the wound when you came out of the lake, but it’s gotten infected. I’m going to give you four ibuprofen, then I’ll return shortly and we’ll discuss next steps.”
    I swallow the tablets and close my eyes. Next steps. That’s funny.Why? Oh, yeah, ’cause I’ve got a leg injury. At least the best bit of me is still intact.
    EVERYTHING STILL HURTS, BUT THE fever’s subsided, and my head is clear. The world is back, and so is the doctor. She turns me to get a better look at my right leg and slides my jeans off. They come off as easily as if they were pajamas.
    Dark fluid, black and burgundy, oozes through the white bandage that runs the length of my calf, from just below my knee to my right ankle. The skin around the bandage is puffy and red. I can almost feel myself getting sicker, just looking at it.
    My limbs were numb at the end, in the plane, when whatever snagged me dug into my leg, and Nick pulled me free. Now it hurts. I can almost feel the heat rising from it, crawling up my body.
    Sabrina stares at the bandage for a long moment, as if she’s a human X-ray machine and needs to hold still to capture an accurate image. Then she looks me in the eye.
    â€œYou have a severe infection originating at the laceration in your calf. Infection was a risk when you came onto the bank. I cleaned the wound as best I could and bandaged it. Those measures were insufficient. Now we need to make some decisions.”
    I don’t like the sound of this.
    â€œThe next step is for me to clean the wound again and monitor it more closely. Normally you would have been getting antibiotics already, but our supply is very limited. Since your infection is one we can access, we have some chance of countering it without oral antibiotics.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œIf the infection is still advancing by the time the sun sets, we’ll have to take a more proactive approach.”
    I nod, trying to conceal my growing nervousness.
    â€œAt that point, I will remove some of the flesh around the wound and sterilize the area a third time.”
    She speaks at length in the same monotone, listing the risks in detail, using scary words like sepsis and gangrene . The long and short is, if I don’t get better today, she’s going to remove some part of my leg. Best case: my summer fashion choices will be limited from hereon out. The worst case is . . . a good bit worse. Sabrina ends on the words “permanent loss of mobility.” Then she waits. I wonder what she wants me to say.
    â€œWell, writers don’t get out much anyway. Haven’t played sports in decades.” So much for reactivating that gym membership when I get back to civilization.
    â€œI’ve described your situation in detail because I believe every patient is entitled to know the details of their medical status and to be involved in the decisions for their care, when possible. And your situation is unique at present. Nick has been to see me regarding your care. He’s been quite insistent that you receive antibiotics immediately. He has enumerated certain . . . consequences—emotional repercussions for him personally and effects these might have on the well-being of the camp at