Page 57 of Outbreak Protocol

"My mom died," Emma says suddenly, still looking at Felix. "Even though everyone tried to help her."

I swallow hard. "I know."

"Felix said sometimes people die even when doctors do everything right."

I kneel beside her again, turning her gently to face me. "That's true. But sometimes people live even when the odds say they shouldn't."

"Because of science?"

"Because of science," I agree, "and because of—" I pause, searching for words that don't sound like empty platitudes. "Because people can be remarkably stubborn about staying alive when they have something to live for."

Emma studies my face, her expression unsettlingly adult. "He has us to live for."

"Yes," I whisper. "He does."

We turn back to the window. Felix lies motionless, unchanged, while monitors track his heartbeat, his oxygen levels, his brain activity. The numbers fluctuate in tiny increments—some worse, some marginally better.

I've spent my career analyzing data, finding patterns in numbers that tell stories of life and death across populations. But now, watching these particular numbers attached to this particular person, I find myself bargaining with probability in ways that defy statistical logic.

Just let him be in the percentage that survives. Just let him beat the odds. Just let him come back to us.

These aren't prayers—I abandoned those when Astrid died—but they're the closest I've come in eighteen years.

The first hour passes with no significant change. Then the second. Emma eventually falls asleep against my side on the chairs we've pulled up to the window. I don't move, even as my arm grows numb beneath her weight.

Sometime during the third hour, Felix's oxygen saturation increases by three points. It's within the range of normal fluctuation, Dr. Nguyen cautions when I point it out. Not necessarily a response.

But in the fourth hour, his inflammatory markers begin to decrease. Not dramatically, but consistently. The hemorrhaging beneath his skin doesn't worsen.

"It's working," Sarah whispers, appearing beside me with fresh data. "Slowly, but it's working."

I should feel triumph, relief, joy—any of the emotions that would make sense in this moment. Instead, I feel a strange, hollowing sensation as the adrenaline that's kept me functioning for the past twenty-six hours begins to ebb.

"We need to produce more," I say, studying the numbers. "And begin synthesizing a version that can be mass-produced."

Sarah nods. "Yuki's already working on scaling up production."

"Good." I look back at Felix, still motionless but—perhaps—marginally less pale. "And contact Colonel Santos. Tell her we have preliminary results indicating treatment efficacy."

"Will do." She squeezes my shoulder before returning to the lab.

I gently shift Emma so her head rests on a pillow instead of my arm, then stand and stretch my cramped muscles. Through the window, Felix's monitors continue their cautious improvement. Not dramatic, not guaranteed, but something.

For the first time since watching him being wheeled away in that isolation transport, I allow myself to truly consider the possibility that he might survive. That we might have more mornings like the one just days ago, when I woke beside him and felt something I'd forgotten was possible.

Emma stirs slightly in her sleep, mumbling something that sounds like "pancakes." Even now, amid crisis, children dream of normal things. Felix would make her pancakes shaped like animals when this is over, I decide. I would learn how to help.

I press my palm against the glass once more.

"Keep fighting," I whisper to Felix. "We're waiting for you."

Behind me, the lab continues its urgent work, preparing to save not just one life but potentially millions. But for this moment, I allow myself to focus on the single life that has, against all my careful professional boundaries, become inextricably tangled with my own.

The monitors beep steadily, each sound a small victory in the battle we've only just begun.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Day 45