CHAPTER 34: INTO THE ROOM
The petechial rash is everywhere.
I work systematically, the way I learned in another life—the way that's become instinct in this one. Physical examination: lymph nodes swollen, liver edge palpable three centimeters below the costal margin, spleen enlarged. Neurological: confusion, but pupils equal and reactive, no focal deficits suggesting encephalitis yet.
Chen mumbles throughout, fragments of sentences that might be delirium or might be useful history. "Told the village... water's bad... rats in the grain store..."
I file it away, keep examining.
His hands tell a story. Calluses in the pattern of someone who works with tools—building things, probably, given the aid worker background. But there's also scarring: old puncture wounds, the kind you get from animal bites. Small ones. Rat-sized.
"Mr. Chen." I lean closer, ignoring the way my heart rate spikes at the proximity. "Where exactly were you working?"
His eyes find mine again, more lucid this time. "Kenema District. Sierra Leone." A wet cough rattles through him. "The clinic... we were rebuilding the clinic."
Kenema District. The name triggers something—a lecture from medical school, or maybe from before, from the previous life where I spent too many nights reading about diseases I hoped never to see.
Lassa fever is endemic to Kenema District.
I move to Chen's belongings, which someone has sealed in a contamination bag on the far side of the room. Inside: a worn leather journal, a cheap phone, a crucifix on a chain, and a small bottle that looks like it contains some kind of herbal preparation.
The journal is the key.
I flip through pages carefully, plastic gloves making the paper stick. Chen's handwriting is cramped but legible. Dates, locations, observations about the rebuilding project. And then, three weeks ago: Went to see the traditional healer. Gave me something for the headaches. Said the spirits were angry about the grain store rats.
Traditional healer. Herbal preparation. Rat exposure in an endemic area.
I look back at the rash pattern—concentrated around the face and upper chest, less severe on the extremities. Classic Lassa presentation, but complicated by something else. Secondary infection, maybe. The bacterial superinfection would explain why his decline was so rapid.
Twenty minutes. I've been in here twenty minutes.
Through the observation window, I can see House watching with an expression I can't read. Cameron is beside him now, her face pale even at this distance. Foreman is on a phone—probably coordinating with the CDC.
I signal that I'm coming out.
Decontamination takes fifteen minutes. Scrubbing, spraying, removing layers one by one into biohazard containers. My hands shake slightly as I peel off the last pair of gloves—adrenaline, not fear, though the distinction feels academic right now.
House is waiting when I emerge.
"Lassa fever," I say before he can speak. "Not Ebola. The rash pattern is wrong for Ebola—too concentrated on the face and trunk. Plus, he was working in Kenema District, which is endemic for Lassa. Journal mentions rat exposure at a grain store he was rebuilding, and he consulted a traditional healer three weeks ago."
"You diagnosed that from a journal?"
"I diagnosed it from symptom pattern plus epidemiological context plus exposure history. The journal just confirmed what I was already suspecting." I'm aware of Cameron behind House, aware of Foreman listening from across the hall. "He's also got a secondary bacterial infection—probably pneumonia—which is why his decline was so rapid. Lassa alone would've given us more time."
House is silent for a long moment. Then: "Treatment protocol?"
"Ribavirin. High-dose IV. Start immediately. For the secondary infection, broad-spectrum antibiotics until we can culture whatever's growing in his lungs."
"You got all that in twenty minutes."
"I paid attention to what he brought with him, not just what he presented with." I meet House's eyes. "The disease is the patient's life, right? His life was in that journal. In the scars on his hands. In the traditional medicine bottle in his bag."
House's expression shifts—something flickering behind his eyes that might be respect, might be deeper suspicion, might be both.
"Run the tests," he says to Foreman. "Lassa serology, blood cultures, the works. Start ribavirin now—we can change course if Chase is wrong."
"I'm not wrong."
House turns back to me. "You spent twenty minutes in a room with one of the deadliest diseases on the planet and came out with a diagnosis that would've taken most doctors hours to reach. Either you're very lucky, very smart, or something else entirely." He pauses. "Mandatory observation. Seven days. Lassa's incubation period is three weeks, but we'll know within a week if you've got any exposure."
"I'm fine."
"You're fine until you're not. Observation suite, three doors down from the patient. I want you monitored."
It's not a request. And despite everything—despite my confidence in the enhanced immunity that's kept me healthy since I woke up in this body—I can't argue. House is right. Lassa fever has a mortality rate up to 50% in severe cases.
For the first time since the transmigration, I genuinely don't know if my powers will be enough.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0