Page 4 of Outbreak Protocol
"Mine too," I agree, settling into what's become my usual chair at their small table. The wood is scratched from years of homework sessions and craft projects, marked with ring stains from countless mugs of coffee during Anna's late-night study sessions for her nursing certifications.
Emma climbs into the chair beside me, immediately launching into a detailed account of her day.
"We had art class and I painted a tree, but Lukas said it looked like broccoli, so I painted a rainbow behind it to make it prettier.
And then at lunch, Mia brought cookies shaped like animals, but they were store-bought, not homemade like Mum's.
And oh! The most exciting thing happened after school! "
Anna catches my eye over Emma's head, her expression shifting to gentle exasperation mixed with affection.
"Tell Uncle Felix about the puppet show," Anna prompts while draining pasta water.
"Right! So Mum had to work late again yesterday because of some emergency—"
"Not an emergency," Anna corrects. "Just paperwork that couldn't wait."
"—so Frau Klein from downstairs picked me up from school and took me to the library for their special puppet show! It was about a princess who becomes a doctor and saves her kingdom from a terrible plague!"
The word 'plague' sends an unexpected chill through me, but Emma continues obliviously.
"The princess had to be really brave because all the other doctors were scared, but she didn't give up even when the king told her she was wrong. And in the end, she discovered the cure and everyone celebrated!"
Anna brings steaming plates to the table, her movements efficient from years of balancing single parenthood with demanding shifts. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
"How so?" I twirl spaghetti around my fork, though my appetite has dimmed slightly.
"A doctor who refuses to give up even when authority figures dismiss their concerns?"
She knows. Somehow, Anna always knows when something's eating at me, even when I try to keep work separate from these precious evenings with them.
"Eat your vegetables, Em," Anna says instead of pressing the issue.
Emma dramatically spears a single piece of broccoli with her fork. "Uncle Felix, do you ever get scared at the hospital?"
The question catches me off guard. Anna pauses mid-bite, watching my response carefully.
"Sometimes," I answer honestly. "Being scared isn't bad, Em. It means you care about doing the right thing."
"Is that why you became a doctor? To help people even when it's scary?"
"Partly. But mostly because I like puzzles, and sick people are complicated puzzles that need solving."
"Like the princess in the story!"
"Exactly like the princess."
Emma grins, apparently satisfied with this explanation, and returns to carefully avoiding her vegetables while demolishing her garlic bread.
"Uncle Felix," Emma says suddenly, "are you staying for movie night? Mum said we could watch The Princess Bride if you're here to explain the sword fighting parts."
"Wouldn't miss it."
Because this—Emma's infectious laughter, Anna's steady presence, the illusion of family—this is what makes the risks worthwhile. What makes fighting bureaucratic indifference and professional consequences feel not just necessary, but urgent.
These moments remind me why I left pathology for emergency medicine. Why I choose living patients over academic puzzles. Why some battles are worth your career.
Some things are worth protecting, no matter the cost.
That evening, I visit each of my suspected cases still in the hospital.
Klaus Weber's condition has deteriorated rapidly—he's now in isolation with kidney failure and diffuse bleeding.
The teacher, Frau Schmidt, died this afternoon after a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Two new cases came in during my shift.
In the quiet of the doctors' lounge, I pull up the ECDC website on my laptop. The European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control maintains surveillance systems for exactly this type of situation. I navigate through their reporting protocols, finding the section on unusual disease clusters.
A search for recent epidemiological publications leads me to several papers authored by Dr. Erik Lindqvist, a Swedish epidemiologist specializing in emerging infectious diseases. His work on early detection systems for novel pathogens is exactly what I need.
I begin drafting an email, formal at first, then delete it and start again with raw honesty.
Dr. Lindqvist,
I'm Dr. Felix Müller, an emergency physician at University Hospital Hamburg.
Over the past three weeks, I've documented 31 cases of what appears to be an unidentified infectious disease with alarming characteristics.
Local authorities have dismissed my concerns as seasonal variation in influenza presentation.
The illness begins with flu-like symptoms but rapidly progresses to include neurological complications, hemorrhagic manifestations, and multi-organ failure.
Current mortality rate is approximately 65%.
I've observed clusters suggesting community transmission, with possible zoonotic origin (multiple cases mentioned sick or deceased pets prior to symptom onset).
Hospital administration has explicitly discouraged further investigation or external reporting.
I'm contacting you directly because I believe we're facing something that requires immediate expert attention.
I've attached my documentation of all cases, including clinical progression, geographical distribution, and possible epidemiological links.
I understand this is an unusual approach, but I'm increasingly concerned that bureaucratic delays are costing lives. I would greatly appreciate your assessment of whether these cases warrant ECDC involvement.
Respectfully,
Dr. Felix Müller
Emergency Medicine
University Hospital Hamburg
I attach my meticulously compiled spreadsheets, anonymized case notes, and the crude epidemic curve I've been tracking. My finger hovers over the send button.
This could end my career at the hospital. Hartmann would view it as insubordination, going over his head to an external agency. The Mayor's office would be furious about potential negative publicity before their precious trade conference.
But then I remember Friedrich Heinz's knowing eyes. Whatever this is, it jumps boundaries. I think of Martin Meier asking if his mother will die. Of the kindergarten teacher whose students are now falling ill. Of all the patients whose names and faces stay with me long after my shifts end.
I press send.
Whatever the professional consequences, I can't stay silent while people die of a disease no one is willing to name. Sometimes being a good doctor means being a terrible employee. I've made my choice.
Now I wait for Dr. Lindqvist to make his.