Page 40 of Outbreak Protocol

"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 peoplecry? 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?"