Page 21 of Outbreak Protocol

The laboratory hums with late-evening activity as Sarah processes another batch of avian samples. I review genetic sequence data on my laptop, cross-referencing viral markers with immune response patterns, when Felix appears beside my workstation.

"Time to go," he says quietly.

"I need to finish this analysis—"

"Erik." His voice carries gentle firmness. "Emma's been at the Hartmanns' for twelve hours. She needs consistency right now, not another night with strangers."

I glance at the clock: 9:47 PM. The day dissolved while we chased scientific leads, and I'd forgotten the eight-year-old girl whose world has been turned upside down.

"You're right," I say, saving my work. "Let me just—"

"No." Felix closes my laptop decisively. "Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow. Emma can't."

Twenty minutes later, we arrive at the Hartmann residence in Blankenese. Emma bounds toward Felix the moment Frau Hartmann opens the door, her small arms wrapping around his waist with desperate relief.

"Felix! I thought you forgot about me."

"Never," he assures her, kneeling to her eye level. "We've been working to help sick people, but now we're here for you."

Emma peers at me from behind Felix's shoulder, her expression curious rather than shy. "Is Dr. Lindqvist coming too?"

"If that's alright with you," I answer carefully.

She considers this with the seriousness only children possess. "It's okay," she decides. "But you have to help make dinner. Felix always lets me help."

Frau Hartmann exchanges pleasantries and hands over Emma's small backpack. In the car, Emma chatters about her day—drawing pictures, watching cartoons, and asking Frau Hartmann endless questions about why adults work so much.

"She said you're saving people," Emma tells Felix as we drive through Hamburg's quieter residential streets. "Like superheroes but with medicine instead of superpowers. "

"Something like that," Felix agrees, catching my eye in the rearview mirror with a slight smile.

Felix's apartment surprises me. I'd expected clinical efficiency—something reflecting his medical precision.

Instead, I find warmth: bookcases filled with medical texts alongside fantasy novels, a comfortable couch with well-worn cushions, and artwork that suggests personal taste rather than professional decoration.

"Welcome to my actual home," Felix says, noting my examination of his space. "Not very exciting, but it's mine."

Emma immediately claims the kitchen table for her colouring books while Felix rummages through his refrigerator. "We have pasta, some vegetables, and..." He pauses, frowning. "Not much else, actually."

"I can cook," I offer. "If you have basic ingredients."

Both Felix and Emma stare at me with identical expressions of surprise.

"You cook?" Felix asks.

"Swedish upbringing," I explain. "My mother insisted on self-sufficiency, even for future scientists."

Emma claps her hands. "Can you make something exciting? Felix usually just makes spaghetti."

"Hey," Felix protests. "My spaghetti is perfectly adequate. I thought it was your favourite!"

"Adequate isn't exciting, and I'm over spaghetti now," Emma declares with eight-year-old authority.

I survey the available ingredients: pasta, canned tomatoes, onions, garlic, some tired-looking bell peppers, and a block of cheese. "How about pasta arrabbiata? It means 'angry pasta' in Italian."

Emma's eyes widen. "Angry pasta? Why is it angry?"

"Because it's spicy," I explain, finding a large pot. "But not too spicy for you."

As I begin cooking, Emma perches on a kitchen stool, bombarding me with questions. Why do onions make people cry? How do you know when garlic is ready? What makes pasta angry versus happy?

Felix leans against the counter, watching with obvious amusement as I attempt to explain culinary chemistry to an eight-year-old.

"The molecules in onions break down when you cut them," I tell Emma, demonstrating proper knife technique. "They release sulfur compounds that irritate your eyes."

"So onions are mean?"

"Not mean. Just... chemically reactive."

Emma nods sagely, as if this explains everything about vegetables.

Felix steps closer, ostensibly to help but really to brush his hand against mine as I stir the sauce. The simple contact sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with the cooking.

"You're full of surprises," he murmurs.

"I contain multitudes," I reply, quoting Whitman.

"Now you're just showing off," he teases.

Dinner unfolds with unexpected ease. Emma regales us with stories from school—before everything changed—about her friend Lisa's pet hamster and the time Hans brought his grandmother's dentures for show-and-tell.

"They were so big!" she exclaims, gesturing wildly with her fork. "Like horse teeth! And Hans put them in his mouth and couldn't get them out, so the teacher had to call the nurse."

Felix nearly chokes on his pasta, laughing. "What happened then?"

"They had to use cooking oil to get them unstuck. Hans was very slippery for the rest of the day."

Even I find myself laughing at her animated retelling. Emma has an unconscious gift for mimicry, perfectly capturing her teacher's exasperated tone and Marcus's mortified expression.

"You tell stories like your mama," Felix observes gently.

Emma's face brightens. "Mama says everyone has stories inside them. You just have to know how to let them out. "

The mention of Anna creates a moment of quiet, but Emma recovers quickly. "What stories do you have, Dr. Lindqvist?"

"Erik," I correct automatically, then pause. What stories do I have that an eight-year-old would find interesting? Most of my life has been dedicated to research, statistical analysis, academic achievement.

"I once got lost in a Swedish forest for six hours when I was about your age," I finally offer.

Emma leans forward, intrigued. "Were you scared?"

"Terrified," I admit. "But I remembered what my father taught me about moss growing on the north side of trees, and stars for navigation, and eventually I found my way back."

"Were your parents mad?"

"They were too relieved to be angry. Though I was grounded for a week afterward."

"What's grounded?"

Felix and I exchange glances. The concept of being confined to home takes on different meaning during a pandemic.

"It means staying inside as punishment," Felix explains carefully.

Emma considers this. "Like now, but for being bad instead of sick people?"

"Something like that."

After dinner, Emma insists on showing me her colouring books while Felix cleans up. Her artwork reveals remarkable attention to detail—flowers with individually drawn petals, houses with carefully shaded windows, people with expressive faces.

"This is very good," I tell her, examining a picture of what appears to be a hospital. "Are those doctors?"

"That's Felix," she points to a figure with brown hair wearing scrubs. "And that's Mama." A smaller figure in a nurse's uniform, smiling. "And that's you." She indicates a tall figure with light hair holding what looks like a clipboard .

"You've added me to your hospital pictures now?" I ask, genuinely touched.

Emma nods matter-of-factly. "Felix told me about you even before I met you. He said you were very tall and very smart and had serious eyes but a nice face."

I glance toward the kitchen where Felix is loading the dishwasher, warmth spreading through my chest.

"Did he say anything else about me?"

Emma grins mischievously. "He said you made him feel less alone."

By 8:30, Emma begins showing signs of exhaustion—rubbing her eyes, yawning between sentences. Felix suggests bedtime, which initiates negotiations worthy of international diplomacy.

"Can I stay up until nine?"

"It's already past eight-thirty."

"But it's not a school night!"

"There's no school this week because of the situation," Felix reminds her gently.

"Then why can't I stay up late?"

"Because growing girls need sleep to stay healthy."

"But I'm not tired!" she protests, immediately undermining her argument with another massive yawn.

Felix's patience impresses me. He negotiates bedtime rituals with the skill of a seasoned diplomat, eventually reaching a compromise: Emma can read in bed for fifteen minutes if she brushes her teeth and puts on pajamas without further argument.

"Do you have a toothbrush for Dr. Erik?" Emma asks as Felix tucks her into the small guest room he's clearly prepared for her.

"I have a spare," Felix confirms.

"Good. He can't have smelly breath if he's going to sleep here."

I cough to cover a laugh. "Thank you for your concern about my dental hygiene."

"You're welcome," Emma replies seriously. "Mama always says men with clean teeth get second dates. She told her friend Lisa that bad breath is a deal-breaker, even if the guy has nice arms and a good—" she pauses, clearly recalling her mother's exact words, "—package in his scrubs."

After Emma settles into bed with a worn copy of "Matilda," Felix and I retreat to his living room. The apartment feels different now—quieter but somehow more alive, shaped by a child's presence.

"Thank you," Felix says, settling beside me on the couch.

"For what?"

"For being wonderful with her. For cooking dinner. For..." He pauses, searching for words. "For being here."

"I like her," I admit. "She's remarkably resilient."

"Children adapt faster than adults sometimes. They accept new realities without questioning the fairness of it all."

We sit in comfortable silence, the weight of the day settling around us. Outside, Hamburg sleeps under quarantine, but inside this small apartment, something like normalcy exists.

"I should shower," Felix says eventually. "And find you something to sleep in."

"I can take the couch."

"Absolutely not." His tone brooks no argument. "You're sleeping in my bed. I'll take the couch."

"Felix—"

"We're not having this argument," he says firmly. "You're my guest."