David laughed. “Luxury.”
4
Kristi awoke from a dead sleep thanks to a sharp kick in the ribs.
Peter glared down at her. “Get up. Jidda needs you.”
She sat up, looked toward the open door, saw that it was after dawn.
Jidda sat up on his bed mat, a grimace on his face. “It is getting worse again. You have done nothing to help me!”
He’d gotten the last of the IV antibiotics early this morning, so it was time to switch to oral meds. If the infection was getting worse, he would need to go to a hospital—and she might wind up dead.
Pulse tripping, she stood, pushed past Peter, and knelt beside Jidda. She checked his dressing, saw that the redness and inflammation were substantially reduced, though the wound was still draining. “This drainage is normal. The infection is—”
“But it hurts!”
The pain meds had worn off while he’d slept.
“Of course, it hurts. Getting shot hurts. Your pain meds have worn off.” She checked him for fever. “Do you want my medical advice?”
He waited, listening.
“Stop being a bandit. You’re less likely to get shot.” She ignored his shocked response. “You don’t have a fever. Let’s get you your next dose of pain meds and start your oral antibiotics.”
“Why do you talk to me like that?”
“I speak honestly. Would you rather have me lie?” Kristi took two oxycodone tablets and an antibiotic capsule out of the duffel bag and gave them to Jidda, who swallowed them with the remaining water in his cup.
He set the cup aside. “Listen well. I hold your life in my hands, woman.”
She glared at him. “I heldyourlife in my hands,man, and I saved it.”
For a moment, Kristi thought she’d gone too far, the anger on Jidda’s face making her heart thrum.
Then his head fell back, and he laughed. “You are a lioness—and too fine.”
Then Jidda called to his men, and a teenage boy appeared in the doorway. Jidda spoke with him and then looked over at Kristi. “This is my nephew, Obi. He will bring us breakfast and more boiled water for you to drink.”
“Thank you.” She gestured to Jidda’s arm. “I need to remove your IV.”
She carefully pulled off the medical tape and then drew out the catheter, pressing down with clean gauze to stop any bleeding. “Why did you become a bandit, Jidda?”
“My parents died of AIDS when I was a boy. I needed to eat.”
“I’m sorry about your parents.” AIDS still killed tens of thousands of Nigerians every year. “You know what it means to suffer, so why make others suffer? Those guards at the medical clinic had families, too. When your men shot them, I’m sure it was very painful. Now, their children have lost a father. Their sons and daughters are crying today. Do you ever think about that?”
He smacked her hand away. “Does the crocodile worry about its prey?”
“You’re not a crocodile. You’re not an animal. You’re a human—”
From outside came a cry, followed by whimpers of pain.
A shout. Men running.
Jidda called out, and a man answered, leaning in through the open doorway and speaking words Kristi didn’t understand.
A moment later, men entered supporting Obi, whose face was screwed up in pain.