Chapter 7
“You’re a bit terrifying, you know that?”
Kat
It’s been a long week, but I’m finally settling into a rhythm.
Every day blurs into the next—long hours attending patients in the makeshift clinic, dusty air clinging to my clothes as children’s voices dance outside the tent walls.
I’ve gotten faster with my diagnoses, and more efficient with the limited equipment we have.
I haven’t interacted with Archie since the tablet incident, which has only contributed to my good mood.
He does his thing, and I do mine. If I shut my eyes really hard, I can almost forget he’s here.
Well, I’d have to shut my ears too, because I can’t seem to escape his obnoxious laughter or the giggles of the women who flock around him.
This morning, I feel particularly good. The best I’ve felt since I arrived, actually. The headache that has followed me around for three days is gone, my stomach isn’t rebelling against breakfast, and my sleep wasn’t interrupted by the incessant buzzing of mosquitoes.
After stretching out my arms, I decide to go for a run.
I need to shake off the stiffness that’s settled into my limbs from all that crouching and huddling in the clinic.
Besides, the supply truck hasn’t arrived yet.
It was supposed to get here yesterday, but word is it’s been pushed to this afternoon. Which means I’ve got time.
I pull on my trainers and tug my hair into a quick bun, then step out into the pale orange light of dawn.
To my annoyance, I’m greeted by the sight of Archie stretching.
Arms craned over his head, back arched, one foot pressed behind him in a perfect runner’s pose, like he’s filming an ad for some elite-athlete protein powder.
His shirt is already off, hanging around his neck, and sweat glistens on his numerous abs, catching the morning sunlight.
Swallowing hard, I look away.
Of course he’s working out this morning. With all the time and energy he has, he probably goes for a jog every day at the break of dawn.
He acknowledges me with that half smirk, half arrogant eyebrow raise I hate so much. I just ignore it. Tightening my bun, I step off the wooden plank and start jogging down the dirt path without a word.
The air is crisp this early. Still fresh with dew, not yet heavy with heat.
I run ahead, the dirt track springy underfoot.
The sun is only just lifting over the acacia trees, but already the village is stirring around us.
A child waves from behind a makeshift fence, and I raise a hand back, smiling between breaths.
I haven’t felt this light in weeks. It’s peaceful and energizing, and—
“Oi!” Archie calls from behind me, his voice gruff with irritation.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s swatting at something near his neck, his stride breaking. Another slap. Then a curse.
By the time I slow down, he’s pushed past me, but his gait is off. One hand still presses his shoulder. Not just annoyance. Something else.
“Everything all right?” I ask, picking up my pace until I’m beside him.
He grunts. “Bloody thing bit me.”
And that’s when I see it, just under his jawline, already red and swelling. Fast. Not a mosquito bite—it’s too aggressive, too localised.
“Did you see what it looked like?”
“Big. Brown. Like a horsefly with a vengeance.”
Tsetse.
“Okay,” I say calmly, already switching my mindset into work mode. “We’re heading back. Now.”
He raises a brow. “It’s just a bug bite.”
“No, it’s not. Tsetse flies carry sleeping sickness. Move.”
I don’t give him time to argue. We double back to camp, the run feeling longer this time.
The air hotter and Archie’s breathing more laboured.
By the time we reach the clinic, the swelling has worsened, creeping up toward his ear.
He’s flushed now, sweat sheening across his brow, and his chest is rising and falling too fast.
“Sit.”
He heeds my command. His jaw is tight, eyes flicking up at me warily, like he’s trying not to show he’s scared.
I yank open my kit, fingers moving fast: adrenaline, antihistamines, ice pack. I’ve done this a hundred times, but somehow, this time is different. My pulse is hammering loud enough to drown out reason.
“You’re reacting—not to the parasite, but the proteins in the fly’s saliva. Your throat okay?”
He swallows. “Feels tight.”
That’s all I need to hear. I jab the EpiPen into his thigh, and he jerks, wincing.
“Blasted—”
“Breathe through it,” I say, checking his pulse. Fast, but not crashing. “You’re not dying.”
“Feels like I might be.”
I shake my head. “You’d know if you were. Trust me. It’s just an allergic reaction.”
Gently, I press the ice to his neck, watching the angry swell of skin. My hands remain steady even as adrenaline buzzes through my own veins.
“You’ve got maybe ten minutes of relief before your body catches up. Just sit. Breathe. No talking.”
He watches me from under furrowed brows, his expression falling somewhere between annoyed and…vulnerable. That’s new.
I kneel beside him, counting the seconds, assessing. In another setting, I’d refer him straight to hospital for observation. But here, I am the hospital. And I’ll sit right here until I’m sure he’s safe.
After a while, he exhales slowly. “You’re a bit terrifying, you know that?”
“Good,” I say, standing up to grab a cup of water for him. “That’s probably what saved your life.”
I hand him the water, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second. I ignore the jolt it triggers, tingles skittering up my arm.
“Thanks,” he mutters. He takes a long drink, grimacing as he swallows.
His colour is starting to come back, and I’m relieved to see the angry red creeping out of his cheeks, his breathing evening out.
“Better?” I ask.
He nods, then shrugs. “Still feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. A very determined, airborne truck.”
I smile. “That was close. You were lucky.”
“Was I?” His tone is light, but his gaze sharpens. “Or did I just have a very scary woman nearby with a needle fetish?”
Now I roll my eyes. “It’s not a fetish. It’s training.”
“Sure. That’s what they all say.”
I chuckle, and we lapse into silence. Outside, the birds have started up properly now—loud, bright bursts of song from the treetops. Someone calls out in the distance, probably one of the kitchen staff starting breakfast prep as the camp rouses awake.
“You didn’t have to do that so fast,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. “You were like… all instinct.”
“I’m a doctor,” I reply, lifting one shoulder. “That’s the job.”
“Still.” His gaze flicks up to meet mine. “Thanks.”
It’s a simple statement. No teasing, no sarcasm. I clear my throat and brush the dust from my knees. “You’ll want to take it easy today. No latrine duty for you.”
He leans his head back against the wall with a soft groan. “That almost makes it worth the near-death experience.”
I arch a brow. “Almost?” Tossing a small cloth at him, I scoff, “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m hungry,” he says, standing up alongside me. “What do you say we go get some breakfast?”
Archie
All right. Katherine Lennox is not that terrible. She did come to my rescue when she could have just let me die. Although, she might have only done it to ensure her medical record here at the village stays clean. But still, I’m grateful.
During breakfast, I catch her alone near the water jug, quietly sipping tea. It seems like she’s trying to blend into the background. Perhaps it’s time to extend an olive branch.
“Fancy sitting with us?” I ask, grinning wide.
She eyes me suspiciously, but eventually, she shrugs and follows me over to the table. She’s quiet at first, but as our conversation takes off, she loosens up, tossing in dry comments that make the girls giggle. I’m impressed—maybe there’s more to this tough doctor than meets the eye.
And it turns out she’s on our team today at the school. The medics were low on supplies, so she’s been reassigned to help with the build.
We spend the day hauling timber, mixing cement, and fitting window frames under the scorching sun.
My muscles already ache, but I’m loving the purpose behind every dusty, sweaty minute.
Katherine doesn’t even blink when we ask her to carry planks twice her size, nor does she complain when the cement splashes up from the mixture and turns her forearms chalk-white.
She just works in silence, jaw set in determination, though she occasionally laughs at one of my stupid jokes.
We’ve been at it for hours, and deciding it’s time for a break, I duck off to grab water and snacks for the group. When I return balancing a tray stacked high with water bottles and bunches of bananas, Katherine is there, wiping sweat from her brow.
She flashes me a rare, genuine smile.
“Here. You lot need to keep hydrated,” I say, handing out the bottles. “No collapsing on me now.”
Katherine rolls her eyes, but she accepts a bottle, taking a sip before passing the tray back.
“Look at you, playing camp dad,” she teases.
I grin and give her an exaggerated bow. “All part of the service.”
When her eyes fall to the swollen bite on my neck, her teasing expression fades into concern.
“How’s that bite feeling?” she asks, stepping closer.
I shrug, trying not to wince as I twist my neck. “Better than earlier. Less itchy now.”
Without hesitation, she pulls an antiseptic wipe from her pocket. “Let me have a quick look—make sure it’s not getting worse.”
“Do you always have wipes on you? Most girls carry lipstick or perfume, you know?”
“Yeah, I’m not most girls.” She comes closer, carefully swiping the cloth around the bite with steady hands.
“Keep it clean, all right? And don’t scratch it. If it flares up or you feel off, tell me immediately,” she says, standing up.
I meet her gaze, the usual venomous atmosphere between us replaced by something softer.
“Thanks, Kat.”
She frowns at my use of the nickname, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she gets back to work fitting a window frame.
Yeah, if there’s one thing I’ve learned on this mission so far, it’s that Katherine Lennox is one of a kind.