She staggered off the plane, her legs limp from a combination of jet lag and depleted adrenaline; naturally enough, she’d planned to sleep on the flight instead of running an airborne ICU. As she navigated the corridor to the airport, she looked for a stretcher, but her patient was long gone, no doubt whisked past in a special line for emergencies.
How had she forgotten about customs? At this hour in the morning, the enormous space resembled the inside of a disturbed beehive, people swarming all over the place, a billion buzzy languages clogging the air. She’d also missed the handout of the obligatory immigrations form during her time tending to the sick man, forcing her to step out of line to obtain and complete it. By the time she cleared customs and immigration, nearly another half hour had passed, and all she could do was hope he was still somewhere within the airport complex.
The airport’s medical clinic turned out to be surprisingly sophisticated. More of a compact emergency department, it was equipped with trauma rooms and a small operating room, X-ray capabilities, an ultrasound, and even a laboratory, according to a pamphlet at the desk. Also a quarantine station, which made perfect sense in an airport. More than twenty thousand people a year sought care here, averaging to over fifty a day. This place was hopping.
She tried bluffing her way back to the treatment area, identifying herself as “the physician from Flight 704,” but a pinched-face receptionist took one look at her and directed her to wait in a seating area. She took the opportunity to check her phone: no new messages from Jonah. After that, she waited. And waited. After reading an array of useless magazines, she’d just stood and walked out of the clinic when her phone buzzed. Jonah!
Sorry about all the butt-texts.
Easing out of the flow of traffic, she fired off a reply. What’s happening with your patients?
Four cancellations, three more no-shows.
She waited for more but apparently that was it. She sat down hard on a gray, stiff-backed bench.
So where did you go last night?
She stopped, confused. Had it been last night or the night before? What day was it now in the States?
Three dots appeared in the message screen, followed by more words.
I went for a drive. I’m really sorry I bailed on you.
This made sense; Jonah often went for a drive when he was upset. Still, he could have at least called her.
Why?
I don’t know. The office staff is acting weird.
Why didn’t you call me last night?
I’m sorry. I called Deanna. She said to get more information and then allow time to process before I respond. Talk when you get back?
We can talk now! she wrote, but, after a delay, Jonah replied that he was still in clinic. Georgia slumped back against the gray seat. Should she call him anyway? She had a lot of faith in Deanna, Jonah’s therapist, whom she knew from volunteering at the county’s free medical clinic. A lovely woman with purple ombré hair lightening to a pale lavender at the tips, Deanna was the sort who brooked no nonsense: she called you out if you dissembled or equivocated, but she never failed to deliver an impression of confidence in her patients. Jonah had been seeing her for over a year, since his last bout of depression. Georgia rose from her slump. With Deanna at his back, Jonah would be all right.
She hoped.
Upon her return, if anything, the airport clinic looked even busier than when she’d left: the waiting room chairs were all occupied and a man in a feathered fedora stood at the check-in counter, arguing in vociferous German with the receptionist; behind him stretched a line of people. An unexpected melancholy washed through her; Mark had probably been discharged already, or transferred to a hospital. She took the first step back toward the terminal, stopping when her phone buzzed again with a text, this time from an unfamiliar number.
Felix Culpa.
Felix Culpa! She realized she’d forgotten to look up the Latin phrase on the plane. Hurriedly, she opened the phone’s browser and typed it in, receiving an immediate hit from an article in the online magazine Mental Floss:
Felix Culpa: a felix culpa is literally a “happy fault.”
Hello, she wrote back. How are you feeling?
Mortified.
Don’t worry about it, she typed. Someone is always overdosing pretty much every time I fly.
A moment of radio silence, then: Can I call you?
Sure.
The phone rang a moment later. “So I’m curious,” she said. “How much do you remember?”
The voice on the other end, scratchy and slightly sheepish, hesitated briefly before answering. “Not much. I called to apologize.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“I’m embarrassed. I generally prefer to meet people when I’m not sloshed on the floor of an airplane. I understand you had to, er, undress me.”
“Well, not fully undr—”
“Horrible. You’re probably traumatized. I am so sorry.”
“How are you feeling?”
A rumbling locomotive sound: it was his laugh. “I’m fine. I’ve gotten more IV fluid and medicine and a lecture from a very stern medic about how I should check with a functional adult in the future before I make any medication decisions. At this point I’m suffering mainly from humiliation.”
“I’m so glad. I mean, I’m glad you’re fine, not that you’re humiliated.”
“It was worth it,” he said, and with a start, Georgia realized she was hearing his voice directly. Looking sideways, she found herself staring into someone’s groin. She tilted her neck farther.
It took a moment to register that the man in front of her was the patient from the plane. This was the first time she’d seen him upright. The molish dilation of his pupils had receded, so it was also the first time she could make out the color of his eyes: a nice, light, clear hazel. Also—regarding him in a nonclinical frame of mind for the first time—she noticed his features. Dark, short hair, doubtless smooth and stylish under normal circumstances but ruffled up in little peaks right now; straight eyebrows, cutting a fine horizontal swathe above each eye; a longish face with a straight, longish nose; pale skin, with the faint gray undertone of incipient stubble along his chin and jawbone. It was an intelligent face. Georgia had dated every possible kind of human in her thirty-six years, and while she tended to gravitate toward the roguish sort—creative misfits, musicians, entrepreneurs, and eccentrics of all stripes—she did appreciate a smart man.
The man—Mark, he’d said his name was Mark—straightened up to his full height. His ability to sneak up without her noticing became even more impressive as a couple of things dawned on her: first, he was extremely tall, probably at least six foot six, and second, under his gorgeous jacket he wore paper clothing.