Page 21 of Player Misconduct
When we finally reach the bottom of the stairs, floodlights blind me. Lines of buses wait beyond the cordon. The CDC agents in hazmat suits are efficient and expressionless, guiding people to separate queues markedClearedandObservation.
We’re herded toward a temporary tented structure on the tarmac that looks like it used to belong to the military. Folding tables. Clipboards. Latex gloves snapping. People asking the same questions over and over.
Aleksi ends up beside me somehow—he always does—duffel in hand, watching me from the corner of his eye.
“You good?” he asks under his breath.
“Fine,” I lie, because there’s no point telling him my heartbeat’s been tripping over itself since we landed.
“Uh-huh,” he says softly. “Tell that to your jaw.”
“What about it?”
“You’re clenching it hard enough to crack your molars.”
I glare at him, but it’s weak at best. He smiles like it’s his job to make me angry so I don’t drown.
We inch forward until we reach a table where a CDC coordinator is briefing us. Her face shield fogs with every word. “Limited rooms,” she says, voice echoing slightly through the mask. “If you came with family, you’ll be with family. Otherwise you’ll be quarantined alone. Meals will be delivered to your door. No wandering. Temperature checks in the morning.”
I half expect her to say, “Good luck to all of you. I hope you’re still alive in the morning.” but she doesn’t. Because the truth of what an Ebola diagnosis could mean is a scary thought.
Though I know well enough that Ebola would take more than one night to die of, and with a fifty percent survival rate, it’s not a complete death sentence… but trying to reason with my brain right now is not worth the effort.
“Alone?” I echo before I can stop myself. The word tastes wrong.
Aleksi glances down at me again. His brow furrows, the smallest crease between his eyes. It’s that same look he gave me on the plane before takeoff—the one that saidI’ve got youwithout words.
The line moves forward. A hazmat-suited agent with a clipboard and the authority of a minor god reads down a printed manifest. “Name?”
“Aleksi Mäkelin,” he says.
The agent nods, scans the list. “And?”
“Kendall Hensen,” I supply.
The agent’s eyes flick between us. “Married?”
“Yes,” Aleksi says instantly, without hesitation.
I freeze. “What… no—” I start, elbowing him sharply, but the agent’s already moving, conferring with another clipboard.
“Great,” the hazmat says. “We’ll put you in the same room together. Next.”
And just like that, it’s decided. The next couple steps up. The line moves again. I’m still staring at Aleksi like he’s grown another head.
“Married?” I gasp. “Are you crazy? Why would you lie about that?”
He leans closer, voice low so only I can hear it. “Because I can see it on your face that you’re about thirty seconds from a panic attack.”
“I am not—” I stop, realizing how loud I sound. The CDC agent glances over. I drop my voice again. “You can’t just… lie to federal health officials.”
His shrug is infuriatingly calm. “Would you rather be locked alone in a strange room all night wondering if you caught something? You hate flying, Doc. I’m guessing quarantining a small motel room by yourself is going to be worse.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. Because he’s not wrong. My hands are shaking, my body running on leftover adrenaline that now, without a patient to look after, is turning into fear. Being alone right now sounds like the worst idea imaginable.
“Besides,” he says, lips twitching at the corner, “we’re technically married. For CDC purposes only. Limited-time offer. No vows. No witnesses.”
“This isn’t funny.”
