James Rodriguez

My reflection showed three days of stubble and eyes that had seen too much.

I plugged Wilson's satellite phone into a wall outlet and waited for it to power up.

Seven missed calls from his operation centre.

Two text messages requesting immediate status updates.

No condolence messages for the dead.

The attending physician, a tall Indian woman with steel-framed glasses, approached with a tablet in hand.

Miss Johnson is stable, moderate ankle sprain, significant dehydration and exhaustion.

We've administered fluids and pain management.

She'll need 24 hours observation.

Minimum.

May I see her?

Briefly.

She's requested to speak with you.

Emily lay propped up in a hospital bed and eyed V-line, running into her left arm.

Her face had regained some colour.

Her ankle elevated on a pillow wrapped in compression bandages.

You look terrible, she said when I entered standard operating condition.

I took the chair beside her bed.

Doctor says you'll recover.

She nodded toward the satellite phone in my hand.