Chapter 6
"Oh, if it isn’t our friend of the arachnids."
Kat
Turns out, some people really are scared of spiders.
I smile faintly to myself as I blink awake, still curled beneath my thin sheet.
The camp is cloaked in stillness, save for the distant chirp of birds and the rustling of leaves outside.
Through the slats in the window shutters, sunlight filters in—soft and golden, stretching long and lazy across the floor.
Archie’s strangled scream replays in my head like a highlight reel. I hadn’t meant to go over there—I’d actually been enjoying the rare silence—but once he yelped loud enough to startle the geckos off the wall, I figured I had a civic duty to perform.
I swing my legs out of bed, grab my towel, and slip into my sandals. The morning air brushes cool against my skin as I walk the path to the showers, past low brush and a pair of goats chewing lazily on someone’s laundry line.
The water is tepid at best, but the view past the curtain is something else. Orange sky, palms swaying, birds soaring in the distance. No noise. No pressure. No emails. And—thankfully—no Archie.
Once I’m back in the hut, I pull on clean clothes, twist my damp hair into a low bun, and grab a protein bar from my bag. I eat it quickly on the walk over to the clinic tent, brushing crumbs off my shirt as I wave to a boy with a football tucked under his arm.
By the time I arrive, a long queue has already formed. Mostly mothers with young children, but also a few older men leaning on sticks and one teenage boy holding a bandaged arm, his grimace telling me he probably removed the dressing himself. Again.
“Morning,” I call out, ducking into the tent.
“Morning, Doctora,” says Amara, my local assistant, who’s already gloved up and unpacking supplies from a canvas duffel.
She’s brilliant—sharp, calm under pressure, and as well versed in the local dialect as she is in English, which is extremely useful when we get a patient who doesn’t speak English.
The first few cases are straightforward: two follow-ups from yesterday’s malaria diagnoses—both doing better, tired but fever-free.
I check their vitals while Amara explains to them the importance of finishing the course of meds, even if their fever is gone.
One of the mothers nods, her eyes wary. The other just looks exhausted.
Next, a baby with a rash—probably heat. We show the mother how to use the cream sparingly, and Amara scribbles instructions on a notebook page in both English and the local dialect, tearing it off to give to her.
Then, the boy with the arm. I lift the edge of the bandage and wince. “What did I say about keeping this clean?” I ask him gently, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugs and offers a sheepish grin.
“Looks like someone wanted to impress his friends,” Amara mutters under her breath, making me bite back a smile.
We clean the wound and rewrap it, giving him a packet of antiseptic wipes and a stern look. The kid nods solemnly, as if he’s just been handed state secrets, then jogs out of the tent.
Next comes a grandmother from a nearby village, her nine grandchildren trailing behind her like ducklings.
One has a fever. Another has a persistent cough.
Two have scrapes on their knees from what must have been a full-contact game of tag.
We treat what we can, hand out oral rehydration salts, and promise to stop by their village soon for a proper follow-up.
By the time the last patient leaves, my shirt is sticking to my back, and the tent smells faintly of antiseptic and sweat. The work I do here is so different from what I’m used to at the hospital, but somehow, I know it makes just as much of a difference, and that’s what keeps me going.
We pack up just before the sun dips over the horizon, and I say goodbye to Amara with a grateful smile.
My back aches from crouching most of the afternoon, and my brain is fried.
Luckily, the walk back to camp is peaceful.
The path winds through dry grass and low shrubs, the sky streaked with shocks of pink and gold.
A few birds flit between the branches overhead, and I catch the far-off echo of kids laughing.
I’m exhausted, but when I glimpse the message board back at the communal area, I realise the day is not over yet.
Because apparently, I’m on latrine duty today, with none other than Archie Wilcott.
Great. Just when I was congratulating myself on managing to avoid him for an entire day.
With a groan, I head to the toilet area and grab the cleaning supplies, but Archie’s not here yet.
Shocker. I wait for a few minutes, but the longer I stand there, the more my legs start to protest. My shoulders feel like bricks, and I let out a long, frustrated yawn.
Blowing out a sigh, I finally tie a scarf around my mouth, pull on gloves, and set to work scrubbing. “Of course he’s a no-show,” I mutter under my breath. “Probably thinks he’s too good to touch a toilet brush.”
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
“Bet he’s lounging in a hammock somewhere. Hair perfectly tousled, laughing at his own jokes while some poor girl hangs on his every word,” I grumble. “I hate him. I genuinely hate him.”
I dump another splash of disinfectant into the bucket, the sharp chemical smell making my eyes sting.
“Honestly, who volunteers on a humanitarian mission and skips the actual work? Must be nice having charm and biceps instead of a moral compass.”
I jam the brush into the far corner of the toilet with a grunt.
“Footballers. Overpaid, overpraised, and underwhelming in every actual life skill. Can’t even handle a spider without summoning the entire camp like he’s being murdered.”
By the time I finish, my arms ache, and I’m two degrees short of a heatstroke.
I drag myself to the water tank to rinse off, and that’s when I see him.
He’s at the far edge of the clearing, surrounded by laughing kids, shirt slightly damp with sweat as he juggles a football like he’s in a commercial.
You have got to be kidding me.
I square my shoulders and march across the dusty ground.
“Oh, if it isn’t our friend of the arachnids,” he calls out, shivering theatrically.
I stop a few paces away, crossing my arms. “You think the rules don’t apply to you because you’re a celebrity or something?”
He blinks, the children scooting away to watch the show. “What’s your problem? We’re not in London. There’s no elliptical to wipe down.”
I level him with a dark look. “The latrines. We were supposed to clean them together.”
He runs a hand through his hair, his playful tone dropping. “Right—well, maybe it’ll scrub off those posh manners of yours.” He gives a half-hearted wince, as if he just poked himself.
“Posh?” I echo, leaning in so only he can hear. “I’m the posh one? Who’s out here playing footy with the kids instead of doing his bit?”
He looks down at his scuffed trainers, then meets my eyes. “I forgot, okay? I’m sorry.”
I hold him in my glare, the harsh disinfectant odor still clinging to my gloves. By now, the kids have drifted back to their game, kicking up a swirl of red dust as they scramble after the ball. Archie’s apology hangs in the air, but I’m not done.
“Well,” I say, voice low. “We can be sure of one thing, then. All that money can’t buy you a brain—or decency.”
He flinches, mouth opening as if to retort, but the words die on his tongue.
I turn on my heel and walk away, the crunch of gravel sharp under my boots as I leave him standing there.
Archie
Okay, I really screwed up this time. Totally forgot to check the duty board. When we finished our work at the school, the kids begged me to play, and everything else slipped my mind.
Still, her words were harsh. She’s the brainless one if she can’t put two and two together.
I am here, aren’t I? Do I really deserve that indecency when I give up the little holiday time I have to help people?
I sigh, grabbing my phone from my bedside table to check my messages.
It doesn’t matter what she thinks. The woman touches spiders.
There’s something wrong with her, for sure.
When I notice five missed calls from my mum, my heart rate spikes. She never tries calling more than twice unless it’s serious.
I hit redial, my heart pounding, but the screen goes black after the third dial tone.
I jog back toward camp, dust kicking up under my trainers.
When I reach the common room, it’s dim and mostly empty.
Two volunteers are perched on the edge of the couch playing cards, and an older man in a wide-brimmed hat is napping upright in one of the rickety plastic chairs, mouth hanging open, arms crossed.
There are only three working electrical sockets in the whole room, all clustered along one wall beneath a dusty fan. I crouch before the first one—nothing. The plug is loose, hanging half out. I try the second. Same deal. There’s a blinking red light on the adapter, but no power.
The third one is taken by a tablet that I’m pretty sure belongs to Katherine. I’ve seen her take notes on it.
I glance around. The room is still half-empty. No sign of her.
I know she won’t need her tablet until tomorrow anyway, so I carefully unplug it, wrapping the cord loosely beside it. I slot my phone in, waiting for the reassuring buzz of life. It starts charging immediately.
Leaning over the counter, I brace my arms on either side of the outlet, willing the screen to light up. One percent. Come on, come on.
“Did you seriously just unplug a diagnostic device to play Candy Crush?” a familiar voice cuts through the low hum of the fan behind me.
I turn my head, and there she is—Katherine. Arms folded tight, eyebrows raised, her messy braid falling over one shoulder.
“Sure,” I say, straightening. “Let’s go with ‘diagnostic device.’ Angry Birds, level 203.”
Yeah, she can’t fool me. I saw her at dinner yesterday. At first, I thought she was taking notes again, but I happened to peer over her shoulder while helping myself to more potatoes.
A pink flush creeps up her neck before she recovers. “Excuse me for having a brain cell left to unwind after twelve hours in the field.”
“Oh, because I don’t?” I say, narrowing my eyes. “No, that’s right—I forgot. I don’t have a brain.”
She opens her mouth, probably ready to throw something cutting back at me. But before she can, Heidi steps forward, a water bottle tucked under one arm.
“Archie,” she says. “My phone’s fully charged if you need to make a call.”
“Thank you.” I glance back at Katherine, who’s rolling her eyes. “It’s nice to have someone who cares. Deeply appreciate it, Heidi.”
I take the phone she’s offering, flashing her a grateful smile, and step out into the muggy evening. Pressing the phone to my ear, I pace toward the shade of the nearest tree.
“Hi, Mum,” I say as soon as she picks up.
“Oh, there he is. How are you, my boy?”
“Mum!” I scold. “I thought something had happened. Why did you call so many times?”
“Oh, everything’s fine. I just wanted some news. You haven’t sent a single picture since you landed.”
“I’ll send some later,” I promise, rubbing a hand over my face. “What’s up?”
“Two things,” she says, suddenly all business. “One: did you decide between chicken and sea bass for the reception?”
“I—what?”
“For the wedding, darling. Your brother’s wedding. Which is happening, I’ll remind you, three days after you get back.”
“Oh. Uh. Sea bass?” Is she serious right now?
“Lovely. And two—you’ve written your speech, haven’t you?”
I swallow. “I’ve definitely… thought about it.”
“Archie.”
“I will write it. I promise,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “It’s just—I don’t have a lot of free time here. But don’t worry. It’ll be great.”
Mum sighs on the other end, clearly not convinced. “Fine. Just don’t leave it till the night before. Now, tell me more about the work you’ve been doing over there.”
I lean back against the tree trunk and rehash my first day—the school we’re helping to rebuild, the hours spent in the sun laying bricks and hammering things I’m still not entirely sure were meant to be hammered.
I throw in a few of the lighter stories too—how the kids have started calling me “Big Foot” and have appointed me their official team goalie yesterday.
I leave out the part where I completely forgot to clean the latrines. No need to give her more reason to worry—or ammunition for a future roast.
We hang up, and just as I’m about to head back to the common room, I hear footsteps behind me. I turn to see Katherine stepping around a tree.
“Sounded very important,” she says, her voice flat with sarcasm.
I open my mouth to answer, but she’s already walking away. It’s better that way, actually. I really don’t have the energy to deal with her anymore.