Noah’s expression doesn’t change, and a cold feeling spreads through my chest.
“I don’t think so,” he says, his voice grave.
The smile dies on my face as I rise to follow him. “What happened?”
“He came in about twenty minutes ago. Grayson brought him. He’s in Treatment 3.”
I’m moving before he finishes speaking, my heart pounding against my ribs. Noah follows, his longer stride easily keeping pace with my near-run.
“What are his symptoms?” I ask, doctor mode kicking in to protect me from the panic threatening to overtake my thoughts.
“Fever, vomiting, abdominal pain,” Noah lists clinically. “He’s been deteriorating rapidly over the past few hours.”
I push open the door to Treatment 3 with more force than necessary. The harsh fluorescent lighting reveals Kai sitting on the examination table, hunched over a bedpan. His normally golden skin has a grayish cast, and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. Grayson stands beside him, one hand on Kai’s back, his expression a mask of concern above his skull bandanna.
“Hey, Hollipop,” Kai manages weakly as I enter, attempting a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Sorry to interrupt your busy day of saving lives.”
The attempt at humor, so typical of Kai even in obvious distress, makes my throat tighten. I cross to him quickly, pulling on gloves from the dispenser on the wall.
“What’s going on?” I ask, pressing my hand to his forehead. His skin burns against my palm, confirming the fever Noah mentioned.
“Just feeling a little under the weather,” Kai says, then immediately contradicts himself by retching into the bedpan. Nothing comes up but bile, suggesting he’s been vomiting for some time.
I check his pulse—rapid and thready—and note the fine tremor in his hands. “How long have you been feeling sick?”
“Few days,” he admits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thought it was just a bug. Got worse last night.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I demand, unable to keep the accusation from my voice as I take his blood pressure. It’s lower than I’d like.
Kai attempts a shrug that turns into another shiver. “Didn’t want to worry anyone. You guys have been working hard.”
I exchange a look with Noah over Kai’s bent head. Typical Kai, hiding his own suffering to avoid inconveniencing others. For someone who projects such carefree confidence, he has a surprising aversion to being the center of attention.
“What symptoms besides the fever and vomiting?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain professional despite the worry gnawing at my insides.
“Headache. Dizzy. Stomach cramps.” He pauses, a flush that has nothing to do with fever creeping up his neck. “Some, uh, bathroom issues I’d rather not discuss in mixed company.”
“We’re doctors and part of your pack,” I remind him, my tone brooking no argument. “There’s nothing you can say that will shock us.”
Kai sighs. “Fine. Diarrhea. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” I reply dryly, continuing my examination. “Anything else? Joint pain? Rash? Changes in vision or hearing?”
“No rash. Joints ache, but I figured that was the fever.” He hesitates, then adds almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and everything tastes like I’m sucking on pennies. Weird, right?”
I freeze, my hand still on his wrist where I’m checking his pulse. Metallic taste. The same symptom the Frost twins reported before their condition deteriorated.
“Metallic taste?” I repeat, my voice sharper than I intend.
Kai nods, looking confused by my sudden intensity. “Yeah, started yesterday. Makes it hard to enjoy Grayson’s cooking, which is saying something because the man can barely boil water without setting off the smoke alarm.”
Grayson makes a sound that might be offense, but I barely register it. My mind is racing, connecting dots that have been floating disconnected for weeks.
“Noah,” I say, turning to face him. “We need to test his blood for lead. Now.”
Noah’s expression sharpens, understanding immediately. “You think?—“
“The same thing that’s affecting the children,” I confirm. “The metallic taste, the gastrointestinal symptoms, the neurological involvement. It fits.”
