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Authors: Craig Gehring
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road with only the diffused light of the cloud covered moon to guide her. She’d eventually driven back to the clinic and slept the night there.
She saw James’s hand wave out of the Corvette’s window as he pulled onto the road. She started her car.
A dark body flickered past her headlights. Dark skin and a loincloth. A woman with something in her arms.
The woman was gibbering loudly. She pounded on Callista’s window. The doctor didn’t understand a word the woman was saying.
Callista looked for Seacrest, but he’d already left. She screamed for him on reflex . She realized with a touch of panic that the woman had probably waited for the Corvette to leave.
She checked the door’s lock. Fortunately it was secure.
The woman kept pounding the windshield and shouting. She was frantic.
Callista shouted to her, “Get away!” through the window. The woman did not stop. Callista tried the five dialects she knew besides Tamil. She got no response.
Callista put the car in drive. She decided to try to make a break for it.
The woman screamed even more loudly . She ran in front of the car’s headlights. Callista finally saw her clearly. She had a limp body in her arms. She looked no older than 25, her long black hair framing her face. She looked half Indian, half Chinese, with dark skin , nearly black . Now wonder Callista hadn’t seen her.
Callista had her hand over the horn, planning to force her way past this native, but stopped when she saw the body.
The woman was crying hysterically. She gripped the hood of Callista’s car to steady herself.
She was holding a little boy, younger than the native who she’d treated earlier. Must be her son, thought Callista. He had the same complexion as his mother.
For Callista, there was little choice at this point. The woman had stopped shouting. She was leaning against the car hood with one arm around her son as she took gulping, arrhythmic breaths. He tears sparkled down her dark face.
Oh, God. Callista wrestled with the door lock and stepped out of the car. She approached the woman carefully. The woman looked at Dr. Knowles, but did not show any signs of relief. She showed the doctor the boy.
He was limp, and some saliva had foamed out of his mouth. He was dead or close to it.
Callista moved with all the efficiency of an ER doctor, grabbing the woman’s arm and escorting her through the back door of the clinic. “Come this way,” she said in Tamil. She knew the woman probably didn’t understand her, but the voice tone was important. Callista left the car running; there wasn’t time.
Once in the exam room, Knowles touched the woman’s shoulder and made eye contact. She breathed deeply, in and out. She got the native to do the same. Callista needed her to calm down.
“Do you understand me?” asked Callista in Tamil. “What language do you speak?” The woman looked at her blankly, moving her lips as though trying to work out the words. No comprehension.
Callista gently too k the child’s limp form into her arms and laid him on the exam table. He was dressed in a loincloth and wrapped in an off-white homespun . Callista watch ed the slight rise and fall of his chest. She checked his pulse. It was far too low.
All the while Callista made her exam, the boy’s mother hovered. The mother could not look at him for more than a second; she could not look away from him for more than a second. She was perpetually touching him and releasing him, gulping back her tears only to let them loose again.
Callista opened the boy’s eyelids and flashed a light in his pupils. He was out cold .
On a hunch, Callista pulled out a needle from the cabinet in the room. The woman reacted violently to the glint of steel, throwing her body between her and the child.
Callista held out her hand, refusing to react. She demonstrated breathing deeply again . The
She saw James’s hand wave out of the Corvette’s window as he pulled onto the road. She started her car.
A dark body flickered past her headlights. Dark skin and a loincloth. A woman with something in her arms.
The woman was gibbering loudly. She pounded on Callista’s window. The doctor didn’t understand a word the woman was saying.
Callista looked for Seacrest, but he’d already left. She screamed for him on reflex . She realized with a touch of panic that the woman had probably waited for the Corvette to leave.
She checked the door’s lock. Fortunately it was secure.
The woman kept pounding the windshield and shouting. She was frantic.
Callista shouted to her, “Get away!” through the window. The woman did not stop. Callista tried the five dialects she knew besides Tamil. She got no response.
Callista put the car in drive. She decided to try to make a break for it.
The woman screamed even more loudly . She ran in front of the car’s headlights. Callista finally saw her clearly. She had a limp body in her arms. She looked no older than 25, her long black hair framing her face. She looked half Indian, half Chinese, with dark skin , nearly black . Now wonder Callista hadn’t seen her.
Callista had her hand over the horn, planning to force her way past this native, but stopped when she saw the body.
The woman was crying hysterically. She gripped the hood of Callista’s car to steady herself.
She was holding a little boy, younger than the native who she’d treated earlier. Must be her son, thought Callista. He had the same complexion as his mother.
For Callista, there was little choice at this point. The woman had stopped shouting. She was leaning against the car hood with one arm around her son as she took gulping, arrhythmic breaths. He tears sparkled down her dark face.
Oh, God. Callista wrestled with the door lock and stepped out of the car. She approached the woman carefully. The woman looked at Dr. Knowles, but did not show any signs of relief. She showed the doctor the boy.
He was limp, and some saliva had foamed out of his mouth. He was dead or close to it.
Callista moved with all the efficiency of an ER doctor, grabbing the woman’s arm and escorting her through the back door of the clinic. “Come this way,” she said in Tamil. She knew the woman probably didn’t understand her, but the voice tone was important. Callista left the car running; there wasn’t time.
Once in the exam room, Knowles touched the woman’s shoulder and made eye contact. She breathed deeply, in and out. She got the native to do the same. Callista needed her to calm down.
“Do you understand me?” asked Callista in Tamil. “What language do you speak?” The woman looked at her blankly, moving her lips as though trying to work out the words. No comprehension.
Callista gently too k the child’s limp form into her arms and laid him on the exam table. He was dressed in a loincloth and wrapped in an off-white homespun . Callista watch ed the slight rise and fall of his chest. She checked his pulse. It was far too low.
All the while Callista made her exam, the boy’s mother hovered. The mother could not look at him for more than a second; she could not look away from him for more than a second. She was perpetually touching him and releasing him, gulping back her tears only to let them loose again.
Callista opened the boy’s eyelids and flashed a light in his pupils. He was out cold .
On a hunch, Callista pulled out a needle from the cabinet in the room. The woman reacted violently to the glint of steel, throwing her body between her and the child.
Callista held out her hand, refusing to react. She demonstrated breathing deeply again . The
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