“Are you okay?”
“Yes. And you? You look like you just took a shower.” There were several viewing windows around the chamber.
“Yes – one of sweat. It’s hot in here … hard to describe.”
“Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine. I have to stay inside until the end.
Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked again, and noticed something uneasy flicker across her face.
“Yes,” she said, sending a kiss with her lips and hand.
I didn’t like that “yes.” It had been almost a year since I’d met her – I knew something had happened. There was nothing I could do. Even if I’d wanted to get out, it would have taken at least two hours of pressure adjustments, and of course I wasn’t about to abandon the two patients.
“I’m fine. You can relax.”
When she waved at me through the glass, she smiled.
After six hours – at about 45°C and over 90 percent humidity – we exited the chamber. The treatment was successful. The tingling sensations were gone.
When we finished, I said goodbye to the “casualties” and the team, and raced back to the apartment.
“Did something happen?” I burst in.
“No!”
Suddenly she turned her head aside and began to cry.
“If everything’s fine, why are you crying? Do you want to leave?”
I hugged her.
“No!”
“What is it, come on – talk to me.” I tickled her ear.
She drew away from me.
“You won’t believe it.”
“What is there that I won’t believe?”
“I can’t talk,” she said, breath hitching.
“Come on, Lily … stop. Please tell me.”
“The doctor from the hospital where I was hospitalized at fourteen works here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you remember the Kaplan story – the one that left me with the scar on my leg? The doctor who treated me there is here.”
“The one from the scar?”
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Here of all places?”
