Page 12 of Outbreak Protocol

I watch Felix's face as he talks, noting how discussing Anna's positive qualities provides temporary relief from current anxiety. This is something I understand about grief and worry—sometimes focusing on what makes someone special helps process the fear of losing them.

"What does she like to do outside work?"

"Photography. She takes these incredible urban landscape shots around Hamburg—abandoned buildings, graffiti, architectural details most people overlook. Emma sometimes goes with her on weekend photo walks. Anna says it teaches patience and attention to detail."

"Sounds like qualities that make her excellent at nursing."

"Exactly. She notices things other people miss—subtle changes in patient condition, family dynamics that affect treatment compliance, when colleagues are struggling with difficult cases. The emergency department runs more smoothly when Anna's working."

Felix pauses, then looks directly at me. "How do you handle losing people you care about? In your work, I mean. You must have analyzed outbreaks where colleagues or friends were affected."

The question catches me off-guard with its directness. I think about Astrid, about the walls I've built around my heart to avoid exactly the kind of pain Felix is experiencing now.

"Honestly? I've spent most of my career avoiding personal attachment to individual cases. I analyze populations, not people. It's safer emotionally, but also limiting professionally."

"Safer how?"

I hesitate, then decide Felix deserves honesty.

"I lost my younger sister, Astrid, when I was sixteen.

Leukaemia. Watching her deteriorate over eighteen months taught me that caring too much about individuals can be devastating.

So I chose epidemiology partly because it allows me to help people without getting attached to specific patients.

On the screen they're just numbers in formulas, I can compartmentalize them and detach myself from it all. "

Felix sets down his coffee cup, giving me his full attention. "But you've been different during this outbreak. More engaged with individual cases, more emotionally present during family interviews."

"You've been teaching me that statistical models are more accurate when they account for human behaviour and individual circumstances. Your approach to patient care has shown me what I've been missing by maintaining emotional distance."

"And what's that?"

"The humanity that makes medicine meaningful rather than just technically proficient."

We sit in comfortable silence, processing both the personal revelations and the weight of the crisis surrounding us. Through the window, Hamburg's skyline begins to show hints of dawn—another day in an outbreak that's spiraling beyond our control.

"Erik," Felix says quietly, "I'm scared."

The admission hangs between us, vulnerable and honest. I want to offer reassurance based on epidemiological precedent, but Felix isn't asking for professional assessment. He's sharing personal fear with someone he trusts.

"About Anna specifically, or the outbreak generally?"

"Both. Anna because she's family to me, and the outbreak because we're losing ground. Every day brings exponential case increases, healthcare system strain, and no clear path to effective treatment. I'm watching Hamburg transform into something I don't recognize."

I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine—a gesture that would have been impossible for me a week ago. Physical comfort isn't my strength, but Felix's vulnerability demands response.

"We'll find answers. Sarah's genetic analysis is revealing important pathogen characteristics, Yuki's models help predict outbreak trajectory, and Aleksandr's coordinating resources more effectively than local authorities managed alone. We're making progress. "

"Sometimes progress doesn't feel fast enough."

"I know. But giving up isn't an option—not for Anna, not for the 847 other patients, not for the thousands more we can still protect through effective intervention."

Felix turns his hand palm-up beneath mine, our fingers interlocking naturally. The gesture feels significant beyond its simplicity—two people offering mutual support during crisis, professional partnership evolving into something more personal and intimate.

"Thank you," he says. "For listening, for being here, for helping me remember that hope isn't naive."

"Thank you for teaching me that caring about individuals doesn't compromise scientific objectivity—it enhances it."

Dawn light streams through the consultation room window, illuminating dust motes and the exhaustion etched in both our faces.

We need to return to data analysis, patient interviews, and outbreak coordination.

But this moment feels important—a recognition of growing connection that transcends professional collaboration.

"We should go check in on Emma. She's probably terrified not knowing where her mother is," Felix says, though he doesn't immediately move to leave.

"We should. And then we'll return to finding answers that might help her mother and everyone else fighting this pathogen."

Felix nods, squeezing my hand once before releasing it. "Together?"

"Together."

As we stand to leave, I realize that somewhere between statistical analysis and personal revelation, Felix has become more than a colleague or even a friend. He's quickly become the anchor that keeps me grounded in humanity while navigating the clinical demands of epidemic response.

And judging by the way he looks at me—with trust, affection, and growing intimacy—I suspect the feeling is mutual.

FELIX

At the Hartmann family home in Altona, Dr. Felix Müller and Erik stand at the doorstep. Felix shifts his weight, the weight of the news they're carrying heavier than any medical bag he's carried.

Frau Hartmann opens the door, concern etched on her face. "Dr. Müller, I got your call. Emma's in the living room."

They follow her inside, and Emma looks up from her drawing. Her face brightens at the sight of Felix, but she quickly registers the serious expressions.

"Felix!" she exclaims, putting down her coloured pencils. "Is Mama feeling better?"

Felix kneels beside her, his throat tight. "Emma, that's what I need to talk to you about. Your mama is very sick right now."

Emma's small fingers reach for Felix's hand instinctively. "Like the other people at the hospital?"

"Yes," Felix says gently. "She's in the hospital and the doctors are taking good care of her."

"Can I visit her?" Emma asks, her voice small.

Felix shakes his head. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. No one can visit right now. It's too dangerous—the sickness is something that can spread from person to person."

Emma's gaze shifts to Erik, studying him with recognition. "You're Dr. Erik. Felix told me about you. You're helping make people better, right?"

Erik nods, clearly surprised at being recognized. "That's right. Your mother is very important to us, and we're doing everything we can."

Emma's face crumples slightly. "Is Mama going to die?"

Felix squeezes her hand. "We don't know, Emma. But I promise you we're doing everything possible to help her. "

"Where will I stay?" Emma asks, practicality beyond her years showing through her fear.

"I thought," Felix says, meeting her eyes, "that I could take care of you while your mama gets better. Would that be okay?"

Emma's shoulders relax slightly. "At your apartment with the fish tank?"

Felix nods, a small smile breaking through. "Yes, and we can get some of your things to make it feel more like home."

"Okay," Emma says, then turns to Erik. "Will you help take care of me too?"

Erik looks momentarily startled, but recovers quickly. "I—yes, if you'd like that."

"Felix says you're very smart," Emma says matter-of-factly. "Maybe you can help me with my maths homework."

Felix exchanges a glance with Erik, gratitude in his eyes.

After gathering Emma's essentials, they say goodbye to Frau Hartmann, who promises to check in regularly.

In the car, Erik turns to Felix. "Are you sure about this? Taking care of a child during an outbreak of this magnitude..."

"I couldn't leave her with strangers," Felix says firmly. "Anna's been there for me through everything. Emma needs stability right now, someone who understands what's happening with her mother."

Erik studies Felix's profile as he drives. "It's remarkable, your capacity for care. Most doctors I know compartmentalize—separate work from personal life."

"Is that what you do?" Felix asks.

"I try," Erik admits. "But I'm finding it increasingly difficult." He pauses. "I'll help with Emma. Whatever you need."

From the back seat, Emma's voice pipes up. "Felix says you're nervous sometimes but you're really kind underneath."

Erik turns, meeting Emma's direct gaze. His expression softens with surprise.

"Is that so?" he asks .

Emma nods solemnly. "He said you remind him of a hedgehog. Prickly outside, soft inside."

Felix's laughter fills the car, breaking the tension. Erik joins in, and for a moment, the weight of the pandemic lifts slightly from their shoulders.