They watch me as I prepare a pill for Jonathan, which I help him swallow by guiding his jaw, and gently massaging the muscles of his throat until his reflex takes over.
Stan whistles low. “Wow,” he says. “That was…hot. Do I need to lose my tongue to get that special treatment too, Em?”
Nil nudges him with his elbow. “Stop.”
A breath slips out of me before I can stop it. It’s almost a laugh.
Stan freezes. “Oh my god, I got a little laugh from Em. Did you hear that, Ocean Eyes?”
That earns an eye roll from Nil, while I make sure Jonathan is doing well right after taking Kys.
Behind me, Stan shouts, startling me. “Mills!”
A moment later, a head pops in from the hall. It’s the same staff from earlier. “Yes…?” Their eyes find Stan as they step back inside.
“Can you keep an eye on Tongue Guy over here?” Stan jerks a thumb toward Jonathan. “No dramatic escapes. Doctor Em’s orders.”
Mills moves closer to the bed and bows their head down to me. “I-I’ve got him from here, Doctor.”
“Sweet!” Stan yells, pulling me by the hand. Nil follows, silently nodding at Jonathan and Mills. “Let’s put our fully intact tongues to good use!”
“Fucking hell, Stan,” Nil mumbles.
Their conversation resumes as we leave the MedBay, their voices continuing on either side of me.
***
By evening, we’ve gathered no new leads, but what’s more important is watching over Jonathan. I’ve given him Kys to help him fare withhis situation better. He’ll also be equipped with a sufficient supply of Kys once we reach Cairo, from where he’ll fly home. So will the rest of us.
At this moment, Idris is double-checking Jonathan’s vitals while I stand several steps away. Jonathan’s eyelids lower, his breaths deepening as additional medication pulls him into rest.
“He’ll be stable,” Idris tells me and Darius. “We’ll monitor him in shifts.”
Darius turns his head over to his brother. “I’ll take first watch. Idris, we’ll take turns every four hours.”
“I can stay too,” I say. “I don’t mind.”
Both of them turn to look at me. Darius with his measured stillness. And Idris with his concern palpable that it pushes down his browline.
Idris steps closer. “Em, you’ve been pale all morning. Are you still seasick? Or too stressed out?”
“No,” I say too quickly. “I’m alright.”
“You’re lying,” Darius says, blunt as always. “Your breathing’s off. Besides, you’re not medically trained the way me or Idris are.”
Taking a deep breath, I acknowledge in my tired mind that his statement is true. Idris was a renowned trauma surgeon—still licensed to practice—before he was on board for my experiment. And Darius is a vet who worked for the Marines as their combat medic.
But I’m still someone who holds a doctorate in how the brain functions, in how humans work. I can at the very least watch over a patient.
So I insist, “I can still help.”
“You can help by resting,” Idris says, voice soft but firm. “I’ll take you back.”
For a moment, I’m tempted to argue. Then my stomach twists, a low pull that feels rather close to nausea.
Idris takes the tablet from my hands. “Come on, Em. Please let me help you.”
Despite frowning, I allow it. That alone tells me I’m more exhausted than I’d like to admit.
