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painfully
disintegrated from within. He looked at his gloved hands as though
he might see something there—evidence that he was alive, or
evidence that he might stay that way. “I don’t know.”
    Mary-Margaret turned to Austin, confused.
“What? What don’t you know?”
    “I think I’m numb.” Austin shook his head
slowly as he spoke. “I never expected anything like this . I
feel like I just need to keep moving, you know. I’m afraid to
stop.”
    He thought about when he’d been sitting on
the plane at Denver International Airport prior to take off. He’d
been excited about coming to Africa. It was the grandest adventure
he could imagine. But it wasn’t just that. He felt a passion to
make a difference in the world. He didn’t harbor any illusions
about making it better for everyone. Those kinds of thoughts were
idealistic silliness. Austin’s aspirations were much simpler. He
wanted to make the world better for someone , or maybe
several people. So when he stood in front of his class of a dozen
kids in the free school and felt the enthusiasm they had for
learning, he knew he was helping them—if only just a little—toward
a better life. In some ways, those days were among the best of his
life. He was happy. He was making a difference.
    But just as life in America has a way of
killing the soul with vapid pleasures, life in Africa broke the
heart through random brutality. Austin closed his eyes and choked
back a tear as he saw a parade of smiling faces of those who lived
in the village. Many of those people were in the clinic, and he had
been carrying out buckets of their fluids all day. Their eyes were
desperate with pain. They knew they were dying. Few of them had any
hope.
    Ebola was that kind of killer. Through its
deadly reputation, it killed hope first. Without hope, victims only
wanted the suffering to end. They gave up. And in lingering moments
of consciousness, they stared at the ceiling or the dying person in
the cot next to them. Some cried. But most were past tears.
    Austin couldn’t think about it anymore. He
needed to get moving. No matter how much he hurt, the work helped.
“I’m running out of bleach to clean these.”
    “We’re running out of everything.” And that
was the end of Mary-Margaret’s hope. She put her face in her hands
to catch her flowing tears.
    Staring at her didn’t seem awkward. In weeks
past he’d have turned away, distracted himself with a misplaced
comment on something unrelated, random, and maybe even funny. But
that’s what people he knew back at school did. Back in that
sterile, painless world, emotions were hidden—something for keeping
behind bedroom doors or in darkened rooms. Emotions were shameful
things that were only put on display in books and movies, when
fictional characters with imaginary problems had the right to cry,
making moviegoers feel their pain so thoroughly that they cried,
too.
    But painful in America? How bad was that
really? Losing a boyfriend? Getting a parking ticket? Missing out
on a job? A long line at Starbucks? Getting behind on a credit card
payment?
    Pain in Africa was getting thrown off of a
roof for the sin of being an orphan. It was being castrated in the
street and left to bleed out. It was standing in a ward, stinking
of death, watching every familiar face lose its smile, lose its
hope, bleed its tears, convulse, and die.

Chapter 19
    Dr. Littlefield walked across the deserted
dirt street, still groggy from his insufficient nap. Wind from a
coming thunderstorm kicked up a red dust that blew down the road.
Littlefield shielded his eyes as he noticed a truck parked near the
hospital entrance. Had help finally arrived?
    He mounted the steps and just as he landed a
foot on the porch, a tall man in full protective gear opened the
door and came out of the hospital. “Dr. Littlefield?” He had a
thick Italian accent.
    “Yes.” Littlefield glanced down at his own
inadequate bundle of protective gear—a surgical mask,