Cold Wallet

By Rosy Fenwicke

Newly widowed Jess returns heartbroken from her honeymoon to find she now owns her dead husband's crypto-currency exchange. As a physician, she knows nothing about cryptocurrency and has to rely on Andrew's business partner Henry, a man she never liked, for advice. When the passwords to the Cold Wallets holding the company's assets go missing, the life Jess had so carefully constructed for herself spins out of control.

No one is who they seem to be.

Trust proves to be the scarcest commodity of all.

Editorial Reviews: 

'A thrilling book set in the ruthless world of cryptocurrency which makes it all the more modern, relatable and believable.' Reedsy.com.

'With revelations and resolutions that left me spinning I think that this is a really good thriller and I would recommend it.' LoveReadingUK.

'A savvy psychologically rich novel set in a world of tech-based intrigue.' Kirkus Reviews.

COLD WALLET was a FINALIST in the thriller category of the 16th Annual National INDIE Excellence Awards. 2022. USA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rosy Fenwicke
• Release date: Mar 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9780473559410

Rosy Fenwicke

Rosy Fenwicke is an author and doctor who lives in Martinborough New Zealand. 'IN PRACTICE, The lives of NZ Women Doctors in the 21st Century' was published by Random House in 2004. 'Hot Flush: Book One in the Euphemia Sage Chronicles' was published in 2017 and 'Death Actually' was published in 2018. 'Super Secret: Book Two in the Euphemia Sage Chronicles' will be published in ealry 2019. Rosy has three adult children and two dogs. She enjoys gardening, walking and reading. 

Book preview

Prologue

The right thing to do would have been to walk across the road and stop the wedding. The right thing to do would have been to tell Andrew to run — to run as far and as fast as he could, to a place where no one could find him. No one. Not even me. When did I ever do the right thing?

I figured it was easier to stay in the café and finish my coffee than tell him the truth. Easier — and kinder. Why should I ruin the happy day? I’d read the etiquette sheet Jess had provided — specifically points five through seven, underlined and detailing my responsibilities as his best man. Not one included me telling the groom to run for his life.

Andrew was to be at the appointed place ten minutes before the appointed time, preferably sober and wearing clean underwear. I was to bring the ring and hand it over when asked. Afterwards, at lunch, I was to make a speech — amusing and short. Smut verboten. Simple.

I was late, yet still I waited. I nursed my coffee and stared across the street at the bridal party standing in the driveway of the hotel. Late December, it was a perfect summer’s day in Auckland. The sun was shining. What little breeze there was, gentle and cooling. Jess, the epitome of elegance stood to one side — her white satin sheath fluttering against slim curves. She looked serene. In contrast, Carole, her bridesmaid was pacing up and down, examining the faces of passers-by, searching for me, swearing under her breath. Shorter and plumper than Jess, her navy dress was wrinkling in the heat.

Andrew leant against the veranda watching them from behind his sunglasses. I was still getting used to his haircut. Gone were the random shoulder length curls and in their place slicked-back brown hair with fades on either side. Clean-shaven, and wearing his new suit and shoes he looked for the first time, like the wealthy thirty-two-year-old man that he was. He caught Jess’s eye and shrugged, smiling. I know that what-can-you-do smile. I’m his best friend. I’m the person he told that he was in love, and later that he was getting married. I know what he’s going to do before Jess does. He talks, I listen. At least that’s the way it used to be. Until she came along. I said nothing when he told me he’d proposed. It was too late to say anything now.

I finished my coffee, went to the bathroom took a leak and washed and dried my hands. Ducking down to check my hair in the mirror, I paused. People — women and men — tell me I’m good looking. I believe them. Brown eyes, dark hair, good teeth and built like the rugby player I used to be, what’s not to like? I eat well and work out three times a week. I have a stylist who organises my wardrobe — I take care of myself — I have to. No one else will do it. Not now. With a nod at the barista, I left the café and sauntered across the road. Carole stopped pacing and put away her phone. With my best smile, I greeted the wedding party, told the women how beautiful they looked, shook Andrew’s hand, clapped him on the back and muttered about a late taxi.

The venue, chosen by the bride, was a boutique hotel — expensive, discrete, small and to give Jess credit, tasteful. Inside, it was all French flea-market elegance — chandeliers and white-upholstered Louis XIV chairs. Outside, white gravel paths lined with box hedges marshalled us to an archway brought twelve thousand miles from a decrepit French chateau to this garden in New Zealand.

I stood beside Andrew under the archway and handed him the ring at the appropriate time. I didn’t ruin their day.

We risk everything when we love. Andrew knew that. He committed to love Jess in good times and bad, until death parted them. On the happiest day of his life Andrew wasn’t thinking about death. It was not my place to remind him. Not when there was a chance of happily ever after. That chance was my present to my friend.

Keeping quiet saved a whole lot of trouble — it saved me — for a while. What did that philosopher say? Life is nasty, brutish and short. Terrifying, he forgot terrifying. Images of retractable baseball bats wielded by Murray’s mates loomed large when I considered telling Andrew the truth. I feared losing my friend. Even more, I feared what would happen to me.

It was done. I slapped him on the back and kissed the bride — and Carole. I smiled, I laughed, and I posed for photos. At lunch, I made a short but amusing speech with only a smidgen of smut. I did what a best man does — as ordered — as per the etiquette sheet.

One

Jess stretched and sat up wincing when the straps of her bikini bit into her sunburnt shoulders. The immunology text she’d been reading tumbled on to the sand beside the sun lounger. A staff member leapt forward to retrieve it, but she waved him away and picked it up, shaking the sand from its pages before lying it face down on the table beside her.

As she leant forward she adjusted her sunglasses against the glare from the water and searched the lagoon for her husband. A moment later she spotted a waterspout and a flurry of fins in the distance near the reef. Reassured, she took up the book, found her page and started to read about T cell development in adolescence. She’d never felt happier or more at peace. She was in love with a man who loved her in return. She was staying at Sea Change — one of the world’s most exclusive resorts built on a volcanic atoll in the Yasawa chain, west of the two main Fijian islands.

A year ago, the thought of falling in love and throwing caution to the wind to marry so quickly would have made her scoff. At thirty, she’d had the next ten years mapped out. Ward work, research and a doctorate in immunology, followed by post-doc research overseas — enter Andrew Cullinane. She fell in love and within weeks her plan had been shot to hell.

With her concentration gone the words on the page jumbled into a meaningless mess. She closed the book and put it down. Who was she kidding? Immunology could wait. This place was too gorgeous for words. The white sandy beach overhung with coconut palms, the blue of the sea, the line of jungle-covered hills behind the bay — it was exactly how a tropical paradise was supposed to look. The smell of freshly squeezed lime heralded the arrival of the gin and tonic she’d ordered earlier — Jonah their valet, put the glass down on the table next to her book.

Andrew had suggested the Sea Change resort as a possible honeymoon destination when they were out at dinner one evening. It was Henry, his friend and business colleague, who had insisted it was perfect and that they must go. ‘No Internet, Jess. It’s the only way you’ll get him to switch off,’ he’d said. ‘I’d come with you if I could afford it,’ he added half-jokingly. Jess remembered tensing. Given the slightest encouragement, Henry Turner would have had no compunction playing the third wheel. He followed them most places — a volcanic atoll in the middle of the Pacific ocean would be nothing to him.

Before their wedding, Andrew checked out the resort online and showed her the photos. Sea Change looked amazing — and exclusive — and hideously expensive. She couldn’t imagine being able to relax in such a place. Unused to people waiting on her, worried she would appear gauche and unsophisticated, she didn’t want to embarrass Andrew. The only time she’d left New Zealand was the year before, when she’d travelled to Sydney to sit her final exams. Carole had come with her for support, and after Jess was told she’d passed, they had relaxed and enjoyed three glorious days of sun, surf, shopping and dining out. It was Jess’s first proper holiday as an adult.

‘Let’s go somewhere closer. This place is over the top,’ she whispered to Andrew as they were sitting in the travel agent’s office in downtown Auckland. ‘We’re away for such a short time and it’s so expensive.’

Andrew ignored her, and turned to Sophie, the agent, to ask more questions. Sophie, a buxom woman in her fifties, successful judging by her clothes and the office, focused her attention on Andrew, leaning into their conversation across her desk. Jess didn’t take offence. Sophie was only doing her job and Andrew was often like this. She was used to him. Dismissive at times, he was also blunt. She’d heard him referred to as arrogant, but she preferred to think of him as a man who knew what he wanted. Many of the senior consultants at the hospital were just like him. Usually men, they expected to be heard the first time they said anything. She found it easier to go along with them, only interrupting or asking questions when she considered a patient was at risk, and only after double checking her facts.

Jess had found out very quickly that when Andrew wanted something, he got it. Straightaway or later, the timing was irrelevant. He got what he wanted. One way or another.

‘As you know,’ Sophie said turning her screen so they could both see it. ‘Sea Change is one of the most exclusive resorts in the world. You arrive by helicopter, plane, boat, whichever you prefer. There are four villas. No more.’ She clicked a key and photos of their destination tracked across the screen. ‘Because each one is set in its own bay, you won’t be aware of the other guests on island. Children are strenuously discouraged. The beach is pristine, the reef untouched; it’s a marine reserve actually, so the snorkelling is spectacular. Do either of you dive? Snorkel?’

Andrew had looked at Jess, eyebrows raised. ‘I can’t dive, but I’d like to learn,’ he said. ‘You?’

‘I swam at school,’ she said. ‘We can learn to dive together, that would be fun.’

Sophie continued. ‘The island is covered in virgin tropical jungle and there are tracks which take you to lookouts where you can see the most delicious sunsets. I’m guessing being newlyweds, you may not be so interested in sunrises.’ She paused for a reaction. None was forthcoming.

‘The chef is new,’ she continued. ‘He’s Japanese and specializes in seafood and Pacific fusion. A lot of produce is grown onsite and every effort is made to be self-sustaining. Imagine the Garden of Eden but with a beach, a warm sea, a gourmet restaurant, and enough staff to attend to your every need.’

Jess reached over and squeezed Andrew’s hand.

‘I’m thinking we leave straight after the ceremony,’ he said.

‘But what about Carole and Henry?’ she asked.

‘What about them?’ Andrew asked.

‘We can’t ask them to be our witnesses and then walk out.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s rude. It’s also the only time we’ll ever get married. I’d like to celebrate. Lunch at least. We can’t say I do, tell them to sign here, and jump in a car and go straight to the airport.’

‘You’re having a small wedding?’ Sophie asked. ‘You’re so lucky. Big weddings are a lot of work. My husband and I spent months organizing our daughter’s big day. I can’t tell you how exhausted I was by the end of it.’

‘We’re orphans,’ Andrew said.

Sophie swivelled back to her keyboard and started typing.

‘We’re keeping it low key,’ Jess explained. ‘No family, no fuss.’ She reached out and took his hand again, gently this time. ‘Lunch wouldn’t be making a fuss would it?’

He smiled, leant over and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘Whatever my bride wants.’

Sophie, sensing peace turned back to them. ‘Fabulous ring,’ she breathed, pointing at Jess’s engagement ring.

Jess was still not used to the weight of the four carat white diamond set in rose gold and flexed her fingers. ‘My fiancé is a very generous man,’ she replied.

She looked at the ring now, the brilliant white of the stone nestled beside a simple gold band. She was a married woman. Dr Jess Cullinane. She hadn’t hesitated when Andrew asked her to change her name. Such a small price to pay for love — besides she believed in tradition. Jess Gordon had served her well in recent years, but Jess Cullinane sounded better.

‘You may well have the resort to yourselves,’ Sophie told them after more keystrokes.

‘Keep it that way,’ Andrew said sliding his credit card across the desk. ‘Book all four villas.’

Sophie checked, and when she saw that he wasn’t joking, typed quickly. ‘Confirmed. Your email address?’

‘Print everything out if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to take any risks with the Internet. One less thing to worry about.’

Sophie called her assistant over to take their coffee orders while she leapt into action and completed the documentation. Jess had never seen a woman look as happy in her work as Sophie had that afternoon.

Now in the late afternoon, the sun was on its downward slide towards the horizon. Andrew had been in the water for two hours. He must be getting tired. She got up and looked out to the reef, spotting him easily this time, his fins kicking up a froth of water behind him as he swam towards the beach — slowly. More slowly than he had swum out. She put up a hand to shade her eyes and assessed his progress. Behind her in the bar, the men stopped what they were doing, and one came down the beach towards her. They could both see it. Andrew was struggling. After pulling on her reef shoes, Jess sprinted down the beach, calling to the men to get help. As she splashed into the water, she took no notice of the warmth of the sea. She ignored the little fish scattering beneath her and the turtle who turned in alarm and swam off to her right. Her sole focus was to reach Andrew — quickly.

She dived in and struck out towards him, grateful for the pull of the outgoing tide. Every time she stopped to get her bearings, she was terrified she wouldn’t see him, that he would be lost from view. She was a strong swimmer, much stronger than he was, but even with the tide, it took forever to narrow the distance between them. She heard yelling from the beach, and a boat, its engine whining with the throttle open to maximum, came speeding towards her. She waved it on. The boat overshot Andrew, slowed, then circled back and reached him just as she did, just as he was sinking. She put her arms around him and supported his head, treading water to keep them both afloat, while the men leant over and pulled his limp body towards them. He slithered into the bottom of the boat and lay still while they pulled Jess out of the sea.

‘Go! Go!’ she told them as she moved forward and cradled Andrew’s head in her lap. She felt for a pulse on the side of his neck, and was relieved when she found it — fast and strong.

Andrew opened his eyes and took a long shuddering breath. ‘I knew you’d save me,’ he gasped. ‘Has anyone told you that you have kind eyes?’ Then he winked.

‘You are a rat, Andrew Cullinane,’ she said, slapping his chest. But she bent down and gave him the kiss of life anyway ignoring the look which passed between the men in the back of the boat.

They dined, as they had every evening, at the table on the veranda at the front of their villa. Someone had placed bowls of creamy white frangipani on the steps leading down to the sea, the heady perfume scented the air. Candles in glass holders provided the only light, so as not to distract from the glory of the Milky Way and the dark sky above.

Sophie had been right about the chef. The food was fabulous. Because the island was a marine reserve, everything except the vegetables had to be brought in daily by boat, the chef selecting the best ingredients the South Pacific had to offer. That night they ate crayfish from New Zealand, prepared in a Fijian Suruwa, a lightly spiced coconut milk curry, followed by a peach sorbet served with Central Otago cherries the size of plums, each one bursting with flavour at the first bite. They finished their wine while they stared out to sea; the only sound was the gentle slap of the waves against the steps of the veranda.

‘Will it always be like this?’ Jess asked.

‘Our life, you mean? It could be, if that’s what you want.’

‘I want,’ she said getting up and walking around the table to sit in his lap. He looked into her eyes and smiled that smile. The one she could never resist, the one she’d fallen instantly in love with, months before. She cradled his head against her, his breath warm on her breasts, before his lips moved, barely grazing her skin. She could feel his erection harden beneath her. She thought about straddling him at the table, but she wanted more, much more. Jess stood up, took his hand and led him towards the bedroom.

Afterwards, they slept tangled together in the sheets with the fan beating overhead in the darkness. Meanwhile the staff tiptoed on to the veranda and took away the remains of their meal — and made everything perfect again.

Two

Sometime during the night, Jess was half-asleep when she backed into the curve of Andrew’s body, and expected him to wrap his arms around her. He didn’t move. He was hot — burning hot. Sweat had pooled on the sheet, soaking through to the mattress beneath him. He was breathing fast and shallow and he barely moved when she sat up and turned on the light. He groaned when she shook him gently and then rolled away. She felt his wrist for his pulse and when she couldn’t find it, she gave up. She felt it more easily in his neck. No longer steady and even, the beats were all over the place, and way too fast.

‘Andrew?’ She shook him again, firmly this time — he opened his eyes. He seemed to barely focus before they closed again. Licking his lips, he tried to swallow, but he only succeeded in rolling his sticky tongue around his dry lips.

‘You’re burning up. Did you take your meds today?’

‘This morning.’ His words caught in his mouth behind tacky saliva.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Here, Dr Jess,’ he said and flopped a hand on to his stomach. ‘Here and here.’

She pressed where he indicated, and he let out a soft groan, his abdomen contracting under her hand. It wasn’t soft as it should be. She pushed his hand out of the way and put her ear to his stomach and listened. His gut was going crazy. It was as if he was boiling on the inside.

‘Oh God, I gotta go.’ He groaned, his eyes opened wide as he rolled over, hauled himself to his feet and using the wall for support, staggered to the bathroom. Jess heard an eruption of wind then liquid hitting porcelain — then silence.

She was already up and when she ran to his side, she ignored the terrible smell, the blood and shit spattering the toilet and the surrounding tiles, only seeing the pale face of the man she loved, looking at her helplessly from where he leant against the wall. She flushed the loo under him, then soaked a towel and used it to wipe him clean, hurling it behind her into the bath. She grabbed another towel from the pile and used it to wipe up the surrounding area and dumped that one in the bath too.

‘Can you stand?’ she asked.

‘I’ll try.’

Jess bent down in front of him and hooked her arms under his to help him upright. ‘I’m going to swing you over to the bidet to clean you up. Can you take any weight?’

‘Only if you don’t let go.’ His voice was hoarse. With a combination of lifting and pushing his feet, followed by a final twist, Jess manoeuvred him on to the bidet and turned the tap on full.

‘Feels good,’ he whispered and tried to smile.

‘Stay there, don’t move,’ she said as she ran into the bedroom and grabbed the phone. As she sat on the floor beside him, she called reception.

‘Please, we need help,’ she said without waiting for a reply, before she hung up. Once she’d made sure he wasn’t going to slide off the bidet, she ducked back to the bedroom and pulled on a t-shirt and track pants. When she returned, it was to find Andrew bent double clutching his stomach, teeth clenched, groaning in pain. She squatted down in front of him, took his hand, and squeezed it hard while she waited, counting the seconds waiting for whatever it was, to happen. All the while, praying that help was coming. Half a minute passed. It seemed like a century, then she felt him relax and he opened his eyes and this time he focused.

‘You have such kind eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?’

‘You have Andrew. You have.’

‘You have the kindest eyes in the world,’ he murmured before he shuddered against her, and as he was wracked by a bout of pain, he let go another burst of diarrhoea. The bidet was full. Not such a good idea after all.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘Can you stand up? I need to get you back to the loo.’

Andrew was worse if that was possible. Sweating and grey, he had lost all his strength, and as he leant on her he tried to manage the few steps to their destination.

She grabbed more towels, threw one over the mess in the bidet and used the others to wedge him into a safe position while she searched through her bag of medicines. Her hands were shaking so much she spilt tablets on to the floor in her desperation to find anything which might help. If only she’d prepared a better kit, thought it through, instead of assuming he was better. Damn it, damn me. She found two tablets, codeine and loperamide. Worth a try if he could swallow them and keep them down. She filled a glass with water. Supporting his head, she placed one tablet on his tongue, held the glass to his lips, poured water into his mouth, and tipped his head back. The water dribbled out the sides of his mouth and with it the tablet.

‘Please, please try,’ she said. ‘It’s the best I can do until you get to hospital. You need help, proper help.’ She placed another tablet on his tongue and poured water in again. This time he swallowed and then managed to down two more tablets before another spasm of pain hit him and he bent double, crying this time.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying? You need hospital.’

Andrew sat up and without opening his eyes, shook his head. ‘I’ve been worse, Truly. Not hospital. Not here. I don’t trust them. You help me. You do what you need to, and we can wait it out. Organize a plane tomorrow. Take me home.’

He was panting by the time he finished, his breath foul smelling and hot. Drained of energy, he leant back, eyes closed again, sweat running off him and dripping audibly on to the floor. Jess was about to tell him again that she couldn’t look after him. That she didn’t have the equipment, when he doubled over and fell against her. Caught by surprise she wasn’t ready for his dead weight and he ended up sprawled face down on the floor. Blood spurted from his bottom; the towels turning bright red around him.

I’m not going to panic. I can’t panic. I’m a doctor. I don’t panic. She felt his neck for a pulse. It was still there — faint — but there. All she wanted to do was scream for someone, anyone to come and help. She couldn’t do this alone. She checked her phone. Three minutes had passed since she’d called reception. It seemed like hours. Cradling his head in her lap for the second time that day, she rocked back and forth, stroking his forehead and whispering that it would be all right, and to hang on, help was coming.

Then thankfully, there was a discreet knock. ‘In here. Hurry,’ she called out.

Three men in neatly pressed Hawaiian shirts, warily pushed open the door to the bathroom and stood transfixed staring open mouthed at the chaos. Then the smell reached them, and their faces exhibited looks of disgust. One gagged and backed away, holding his hand over his nose and mouth — the others were desperate to do the same, but thankfully they stayed put.

‘You! Get more towels,’ Jess said pointing at one nearest to her. ‘You!’ she said, ‘get the manager. Tell him to bring whatever first aid equipment there is.’

They didn’t move, and she repeated herself, yelling this time.

‘Go! Move! Please! He’s sick. Really, really sick.’ They didn’t need to be told a third time. To Jess’s relief, when the first man reappeared wiping his mouth, he set about tidying up the mess.

‘How far away is the hospital? How long does it take to get there?’ she asked as he ferried the filthy towels away. He didn’t answer, just shook his head. She made herself take a deep breath and breathe out slowly. She had to stay calm or she would be no help to Andrew.

‘We need to go to hospital,’ she repeated as if this would make it happen. The man smiled weakly and shrugged. He might not understand, but she appreciated he was trying to help and for that Jess was grateful. The second man arrived with a stack of fresh towels and the three of them worked together to wedge them around Andrew, fixing him on his side, in the recovery position. He barely reacted. The blood seeping on to the floor had slowed to a trickle, but it was still bright red.

Jess didn’t know how much longer she could keep it together. She felt like screaming, grabbing the men and shaking them, yelling at them to do more, to help her carry Andrew to hospital, to make it all stop, make him wake up and be normal again.

Thankfully, a second before she descended into full-blown panic, Simon, the manager arrived. He took one look at Andrew, at Jess, the towels and acted. ‘James! Go! Help Paulo bring the first aid kit. Hurry!’ He crouched beside Jess and got her to tell him what had happened.

‘Andrew has inflammatory bowel disease, a disease in his gut,’ Jess said trying but not managing to keep the stammer out of her voice. ‘He was doing well. We thought he was in remission, but this … I’m a doctor. He’s worse than I’ve ever seen him. He has to go to hospital — now,’ she said. ‘How far away is it? Can you call them please? I can put up an IV if you have the gear, but it’s not enough. It won’t be enough. He’ll need surgery to stop the bleeding.’

Simon checked his watch. He appeared to be thinking through the options, but why was he so slow? Just then Andrew groaned. Another explosion soiled the towels with blood mixed with the foulest of watery diarrhoea. This time though, Andrew arched his back and screamed, long and loud.

‘We don’t have much time,’ Jess pleaded. ‘Please help us.’

Simon stood up and walked through to the bedroom. She could hear him talking so, so, slowly. She forced herself to stay silent, to breathe and let him speak to whoever he’d called. She had to hold it together and keep people on side, if Andrew was to get help.

She knelt over her husband, hugging his head, stroking his face, whispering that it would be all right, and that she was here and wouldn’t let anything happen to him, and to hold on, stay with her, to keep listening to her voice. Tears were rolling down her face. ‘Please Andrew, please just hold on.’

Simon was speaking more loudly as she heard him call a helicopter insisting three paramedics were to come with it. She heard him yell at the operator that they were to come now, and that he didn’t care if it was the middle of the night, the pad would be lit.

Paulo arrived with the first aid box. At last, Jess had something to do. She wrapped a tourniquet around Andrew’s arm, then she got the IV and a bag of saline ready. His elbow vein was barely there, but she’d got lines into worse. She pushed the IV in, taped it in place and hooked up the bag of fluid, opening it to run full bore. After finding an ampule of tranexamic acid, she injected a bolus praying it would be enough to stop the bleeding until they got to the hospital.

Meanwhile, Simon was still talking to an operator, demanding to be put through to a doctor. He must have known the person because when he was put through, she heard him call him by name. He listed Andrew’s symptoms, then spoke to her. ‘Tim wants to know what medication your husband is taking. You speak to him.’ He handed the phone to her and left the room to organize men to light up the landing pad for the helicopter.

It was a relief to talk to someone medical. Someone who asked the right questions and who understood the seriousness of the situation. It was as if she was reporting on a ward round and the familiarity of the words helped calm her.

‘Andrew is thirty-two. He’s got ulcerative colitis. He’s had it for six years. Professor David Robinson in Auckland is his usual doctor. He won’t mind if you call him — any time.’ She recited the professor’s cell phone details from her phone. ‘Andrew takes Humira. Gives it to himself every two weeks. No, I can’t be certain when he last had it. It was before we left. No, he didn’t bring any with him. But we wouldn’t have come if he wasn’t stable. We couldn’t have.’ She listened as the doctor asked her about Andrew’s temperature and other signs. She was able to tell him what he needed to know, feeling better to be of use. Then Andrew tensed and moaned. She dropped the phone. As another spasm of pain gripped him, he looked up at her. ‘Kind eyes,’ he said, then he lost consciousness.

It took twenty