Cella ran over to the men’s door and unlocked it, then came back to the jeep to help Pearce wrestle Daud through the snow and into the warm clinic.
“Two clinics?” Pearce asked.
“Strict separation of the sexes. The mullahs insisted. Otherwise, no clinic at all.”
Inside the building, Cella led them to an empty bed. The air was warm. He smelled the kerosene heater on the far wall. There were two other occupied gurneys on the clinic floor. A boy’s voice called out from one.
“Cella? Is that you?” The voice was slurred as if slightly drugged, and panicked. Pearce saw a torso propped up on elbows on one of the cots. The voice was in shadows.
“Yes, it’s me, love. Go back to sleep. It’s early.”
“Who is that with you?”
“A friend. Go back to sleep.”
“And that’s why you lock the doors on the outside.” Pearce lowered Daud’s head and shoulders to the bed.
Cella lowered Daud’s feet. “Thieves will steal the medicine and rape any women they find. Boys, too.” She pointed at a storage rack. Told Pearce, “Two blankets, quick.”
Cella opened a locked steel cabinet and pulled out a 1,000mm saline bag and a sealed IV kit, then rolled over an old-fashioned stainless-steel IV stand. She hung the bag on the hook and opened the kit. Pearce watched her snap on a pair of surgical gloves, then quickly and expertly set up the IV and insert the needle into the back of Daud’s hand. “No pump?” Pearce asked.
“No. Gravity-fed is best. Especially with antibiotic. Pushing the antibiotic too quickly can cause problems.”
Pearce was impressed. IVs were deceptively complicated and even fatal, if not handled properly.
He fought back a yawn. Checked his watch. Still another forty minutes until sunrise. He glanced around the room. Beds, cabinets, sink, a small office desk. Simple, but clean, organized, and well supplied.
“Quite a little place you have here, Doctor.”
“I have a very generous donor base.” Cella pulled on a stethoscope.
“The women’s side is occupied, too?”
“Yes. Quiet, please.” She listened to Daud’s heartbeat and breathing, then held his wrist for a pulse count. She sniffed the air.
“You stink,” Cella said to Pearce. “You need to shower.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not being funny. You smell like stale urine and shit. If you’ve been drinking the water around here, you have diarrhea. Correct?”
“That’s life in the field.”
“But not in my sterile clinic. Unless you want to go back outside, you need to get cleaned up. Soap, hot water. You remember how to shower, don’t you?”
“Where?”
“There’s a shower through that door. And throw away your soiled clothes. I have others you can use.”
“We’re in a combat zone. I can’t—”
“Fine, then go back outside and smell. The stink alone will keep the Taliban away.”
Pearce seriously considered going back outside to keep an eye on things. But he was finally getting warm again. And he did smell like an outhouse. What the hell.
Pearce headed to a small bathroom. He peeled off his clothes and undergarments, tossing everything soaked in sweat, shit, or pee into a pile in the corner. He stacked the body armor on a chair and stepped into the small shower and pulled the plastic curtain shut. The water flow wasn’t strong, but it was stinging hot on his filthy, chilled skin and it felt good.
It took him a solid ten minutes to scrape off the crusted grime with a stiff plastic brush, and he spent another ten washing out crevices and cracks that hadn’t seen clean water or soap in almost a month. Even he was grossed out. He pushed chunks of whatever into the drain hole with his big toe, then swept the rest of the hairs and whatnot into the drain with his size-14 foot before turning off the water.
Pearce pulled aside the plastic curtain, thankful that the small bathroom had kept the steam. He was almost hot now, another sensation he hadn’t felt in a lifetime or two. He instantly noticed that his filthy clothes had disappeared and a pile of fresh clothes was neatly stacked on the now open chair, the body armor carefully placed underneath the seat.
Pearce dressed. Thermal underwear, heavy boot socks. Civilian, Italian labels. And beneath them, local woolen pants and a green hospital scrub shirt. There was a name stenciled on the front: “PAOLINI.” A pair of Nike running shoes, clean but used.
Pearce emerged dressed in his new clothes, but in his stocking feet.
“What’s wrong with the shoes?” Cella asked without looking up. She sat at the small desk, making notes. A pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses were perched on her nose.
She finished her notes and smiled at him. Could she be any more beautiful?
“Too small. Especially with the socks.” Pearce wiggled his toes. “I’ll clean my boots instead, if that’s okay.”
“They’re by the heater, getting dry.” She looked him up and down, clearly pleased. “Everything else seems to fit.”
Pearce looked down at the name stenciled on his shirt. “He and I are about the same size, looks like.”
“Looks like,” she repeated, not taking the bait.
“I miss anything?” Pearce asked.
“It stopped snowing. The sun is up. And there’s a pot of tea steeping. Pour us some, will you, while I finish these notes?”
“Sure.” Pearce padded over to the sink area. A pot sat on a hot plate, steam curling up from the spout. Two thick ceramic cups with Italian navy logos were next to the pot. He poured.
“How’s Daud?”
“His IV will finish in about thirty minutes, then he gets another one. I want to give him four more after that.”
“That’s a lot of fluid.” Pearce set a cup in front of Cella.
“But the latest protocols for sepsis call for it.” She picked it up and blew on it. Pearce tried to ignore the shape of her mouth when she did it.
“You must be exhausted. I know how to hang an IV bag. Go get some rack time,” Pearce offered.
“I’m fine for now. Maybe later. I must make my rounds in a few minutes. The others will wake up soon.”
“How many patients do you have now?” Pearce asked.
“Two women and two girls, next door. One late-term pregnancy, one anemia, and two bladder infections. On this side, Tariq is the old man over there, Ghaazi is the boy you met earlier, and you know Daud.”
“Where are they all from?” Pearce took a sip of tea.
“Some are from across the border, some from this side. All different villages. Tariq was the chief of his village years ago, wiped out by the Russians. He is the last survivor of his clan.”
“And the boy?”
“Ghaazi’s father is a talib who fled to the Tribal Areas.”
“You know Italy is at war with the Taliban, right?”
“My war is in here. The only enemy I fight is death and disease. What you idiots do out there is your business.”
“But you’re helping the enemy of your country.”
“I’m taking care of his child, who lost a foot to a mine planted by the Afghan army. I suppose you think it is my patriotic duty to let the boy die for the sins of his father?” Cella took another sip of tea.
“No. But the boy will probably grow up and become a killer like his father. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I can’t know for sure if he will grow up to be a killer. He probably will. There is killing all around him. What else does he know? Right now, I know he needs my help. I also know that the mine that took his foot was probably American. A lot of American mines have killed a lot of innocent people around here. Doesn’t that bother you?”