“Everything all right?” I ask, picking up my pace until I’m beside him.
He grunts. “Bloody thing bit me.”
And that’s when I see it, just under his jawline, already red and swelling. Fast. Not a mosquito bite—it’s too aggressive, too localised.
“Did you see what it looked like?”
“Big. Brown. Like a horsefly with a vengeance.”
Tsetse.
“Okay,” I say calmly, already switching my mindset into work mode. “We’re heading back. Now.”
He raises a brow. “It’s just a bug bite.”
“No, it’s not. Tsetse flies carry sleeping sickness. Move.”
I don’t give him time to argue. We double back to camp, the run feeling longer this time. The air hotter and Archie’s breathing more laboured. By the time we reach the clinic, the swelling has worsened, creeping up toward his ear. He’s flushed now, sweat sheening across his brow, and his chest is rising and falling too fast.
“Sit.”
He heeds my command. His jaw is tight, eyes flicking up at me warily, like he’s trying not to show he’s scared.
I yank open my kit, fingers moving fast: adrenaline, antihistamines, ice pack. I’ve done this a hundred times, but somehow, this time is different. My pulse is hammering loud enough to drown out reason.
“You’re reacting—not to the parasite, but the proteins in the fly’s saliva. Your throat okay?”
He swallows.“Feels tight.”
That’s all I need to hear. I jab the EpiPen into his thigh, and he jerks, wincing.
“Blasted—”
“Breathe through it,” I say, checking his pulse. Fast, but not crashing. “You’re not dying.”
“Feels like I might be.”
I shake my head. “You’d know if you were. Trust me. It’s just an allergic reaction.”
Gently, I press the ice to his neck, watching the angry swell of skin. My hands remain steady even as adrenaline buzzes through my own veins.
“You’ve got maybe ten minutes of relief before your body catches up. Just sit. Breathe. No talking.”
He watches me from under furrowed brows, his expression falling somewhere between annoyed and…vulnerable. That’s new.
I kneel beside him, counting the seconds, assessing. In another setting, I’d refer him straight to hospital for observation. But here, Iamthe hospital. And I’ll sit right here until I’m sure he’s safe.
After a while, he exhales slowly. “You’re a bit terrifying, you know that?”
“Good,” I say, standing up to grab a cup of water for him. “That’s probably what saved your life.”
I hand him thewater, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second. I ignore the jolt it triggers, tingles skittering up my arm.
“Thanks,” he mutters. He takes a long drink, grimacing as he swallows.
His colour is starting to come back, and I’m relieved to see the angry red creeping out of his cheeks, his breathing evening out.
“Better?” I ask.
