Page 9

“Next time you should keep your knife somewhere you can actually reach it.” She clucks her tongue and hands my bag back to me. “And pepper spray won’t stop a bullet or someone looking to take you down.” She kicks my precious spray to the side, and it rolls away beneath the edge of a blue tarp. Leaning closer, she squints at me. “You’re telling me you’re a doctor? What are you, fifteen?”

“Twenty-six.” I sit up a bit straighter on my bike.

She considers me for a few moments that seem to last forever. Then she sighs and calls, “Les, we’re good.” She waves a hand at the man positioned in the girders.

“Come on.” She takes a step back. “Leave your bike. No one will touch it.”

I doubt that, but she’s the one with the gun.

“This way. Follow me.” She disappears into what becomes a labyrinth of paths through areas of tents and wood, construction materials and scavenged items used for walls. Coughing and voices are all around us, and I’m quickly disoriented though she seems to know the way by heart. Each step that takes me farther from my bike adds to my foreboding. I shouldn’t have come. God, I’m so stupid to think I could get to Gene and back in the space of a few hours. I berate myself silently—all too aware of how Candice would scold the hell out of me for being stupid if she knew what I’d gotten myself into—as I follow the woman until she finally turns and sweeps aside the entry to a tent. “In here.”

I stop and look around as a man hurries past us, his head down. “What’s in there?”

The highwaywoman just stares at me, her arm holding the way open.

I swallow hard and step forward. It’s a small square room with luggage piled in one corner, blankets and pillows strewn about, and a tiny pantry-like area with canned food and a microwave.

“Mommy?” A little girl lies on a cot, her face turned toward us. “Mommy?”

She’s covered in pustules, the rash fanning out from the sides of her nose like a butterfly done by a face painter. No more than ten, she has big brown eyes and clutches an old Cabbage Patch doll to her chest.

“Hi,” I force myself to say brightly as I walk in and kneel beside her. “Nice to meet you. I’m Georgia.”

“Mommy?” the little girl asks the woman uncertainly.

“She’s a doctor, baby. Let her look at you.” The highwaywoman’s voice has softened.

The girl’s eyes widen as she looks at me. “No needles!”

I hold my hands out, palms toward her. “No needles. See? Your mommy brought me here to see you. You’re very important to her.”

She smiles a little, her lips cracking at the edges where the pustules have crusted on the corners of her mouth. “I know.”

“What’s your name?”

“Marisol.” Her voice is raspy but warm.

“What a pretty name.” I unzip my backpack and find a pair of gloves. Pulling them on, I say, “Marisol, I’m just going to examine you for a moment. If that’s okay? It won’t hurt.”

“You promise? Last time we saw the doctor, he hurt me.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Needles.”

“I promise. No needles.” I take her temperature then warm my stethoscope against my gloved palm before pressing it to her chest. “Breathe in deep for me.” As I listen, my eyes try to water, but I swallow down my emotion. I’ve gotten good at it. “One more time?” I help her roll to her side and listen to her back. “Okay, good.” I ease her back into position as she squeezes the doll to her chest. “Just one more thing. I’m going to feel the bumps. Is that okay?”

She gives her mother another glance before looking at me. “Um, just don’t press them too hard. They hurt.”

“I know they do. You’re being really brave.”

She nods. “Mommy says that, too.”

“Here we go.” I brush my thumb over the angriest pustules beside her nose. They don’t open or ooze at all, just remain hard like tiny marbles under her skin.

Stripping off my gloves, I carefully fold them so the contaminated surfaces are covered. “All done.”

“That didn’t hurt.” She coughs. It’s dry and rough.

“Thanks for letting me look at you, Marisol. You did great.”

She smiles up at me, her sunken eyes still bright.