Next up is a boy with a nasty-looking gash on his shin. Katherine crouches beside him, cleans out the wound with practiced hands, and applies antibiotic cream while the boy bites down on his lip.
“You’re being very brave,” she tells him, then turns to his mother. “This needs to stay clean. Wash with soap and water—clean water—and no playing in the mud until it heals.”
As I hand her the gauze roll, I try not to wince at the sight of the wound, focusing on Katherine instead. She’s in her element, checking vitals, offering explanations, ensuring every patient understands not just what to take, but why. She’s in a constant state of flux, and I feel like a robot next to her, handing her stuff and explaining how the filter book works.
I stand back as she relays what seems like the thousandth set of instructions on hand and food washing to an old man. He nods, then walks away, a copy of the book in his hand.
Katherine sighs, wiping sweat from her forehead. I pass her a water bottle without needing to be asked.
“So, this is why you’re always bugging me about the wipes.” I give her a playful nudge. “You’re trying to keep me from dying of some horrible mud-borne disease.”
She offers a smug smile. “Exactly. Hygiene is survival. Does that mean you’ll start using them?”
I press my lips, repressing a grin. “Maybe.”
She swats my arm with a latex glove before turning to the next patient.
We’re halfway through treating an elderly woman with a stubborn rash when a burst of shouting erupts from beyond a copse of trees. People are rushing toward us—Chief Omondi at the forefront, frantic.
“Doctor! Please, help!”
Behind him, two men are carrying a boy—a teenager, maybe fifteen—who’s limp and slick with sweat. His arms are curled in, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Katherine boltsup from the table. “What happened?” she demands, jogging toward them.
“Kato, my son, he collapsed,” the chief says, breathless. “Stomach pain since yesterday. Now he screams, cannot walk. Please.”
“On the table, quick,” she says.
They lower the boy onto the makeshift exam table. Katherine is already checking his pulse, pressing gently on his abdomen.
The kid howls in pain.
She flinches. “Ruptured appendix,” she mutters. “It’s already leaking.”
I have no clue what that means, but judging by the tension in her shoulders, it’s bad news.
“We need to operate,” she says.
“Wait, what?Here?” I whisper, shaking my head. “Katherine, we need to take—”
“If we don’t, he dies.”
That shuts me up.
She spins to face me, her eyes piercing into mine. “Listen. I need the red med pack—the big one. There’s a zip compartment inside. Get everything that looks like metal, plus some gloves, gauze, lidocaine, saline vials, headlamp—”
“Wait, wait,what?” I blink. “What’s lidocaine look like? And where—what zip compartment?”
“Big red bag, right side pocket, inside mesh, vial labeled ‘Lido’ or ‘1%’. And the gauze is in the white and blue packs.”
I hurry, trying to suppress my panic. I find the bag, unzip one part—wrong one. I try the next. Everything is jumbled and hopelessly foreign. Tools, bottles, things that could be pencils or syringes—I don’t know.
I grab everything that looks vaguely important and run it back, dumping it on a chair next to her.
“I don’t know what’s what,” I admit, out of breath. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she says, already sorting through the pile. “Just stay close. I might need help holding him.”