Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
The journey took about five hours. Marcos was a good traveling companion, full of stories. Once out of the air-conditioned airport, he’d stripped off his leather jacket. He was wearing a blue and white shirt underneath with the sleeves rolled up and each time he turned the wheel, I could see his smoothly tanned biceps stretching out the cuffs. He had nice eyes, too: deep, chestnut brown and warm, like his voice, and when he smiled—which was a lot—he got dimples which were sort of adorable.
We eventually pulled up in a small community near the edge of the rainforest. Marcos introduced me to Dr. Guzman, a very tall, slender guy with a silver beard who was in charge of the hospital.
I spent the rest of the day looking around the collection of tents and ramshackle buildings: their lab was a converted shipping container. The place didn’t look like much, but it was obvious they’d poured heart and soul into it. They’d even painted an animal mural in the hut that served as a children’s ward.
Late that night, Marcos showed me to my room. “Well,” he said, “goodnight.”
There was silence for a moment. Which with anyone else wouldn’t have seemed strange, but this was Marcos: he’d barely stopped talking since we left the airport. And he seemed nervous, which was unusual for someone as relaxed as him.
“Goodnight,” I told him, confused. And started to close the door.
“Unlessyouwantanightcap,” he blurted. “I have a bottle of rum in my room, I could go get it.”
That’s when I noticed how he was glancing at my legs. Realization hit. “Um, thank you,” I said. “But it was a long flight. I should probably sleep.”
He looked crestfallen, but rallied quickly. “Some other time?”
“Maybe some other time,” I allowed. I closed the door and leaned back against it, flattered but a little shocked. How had I missed that? And what was I going to do about it? Marcos was pretty good looking and I was single…would a fling with him while I was here be such a terrible thing?
But when I thought of Marcos’s tanned, smooth biceps, my mind skidded off into thoughts of Gabriel’s arms, covered with those twisting, thorny vine tattoos. When I thought of Marcos’s soft brown eyes, innocent as a puppy’s, I couldn’t help but think of Gabriel’s glittering hazel ones, full of mischief.
Marcos was fun and friendly and good looking. He was a doctor, not a criminal. He was everything I should want. Right?
I groaned and fell into bed, pushing the decision off into the future.
I spent the next day talking to patients, checking records and going through the hospital’s supplies. As I finished up, I let out a silent sigh of relief. I’d been dreading discovering corruption and fraud, but everything was how it should be. I’d be able to tell the charity its money was being well spent.
Just as I was finishing up, Doctor Guzman ran into the supply cupboard and started grabbing items and throwing them into a bag. “Marcos and I need to go out on a call,” he told me. “There was an explosion in a village.” His face was drawn with worry. “Many people are hurt.” He went to the blood store and took out three pints of O-neg. “We should be back tomorrow, we can drive you back to the airport then.”
“Take me with you,” I said.
He looked round at me in confusion.
“I’m—I used to be an ER doc. I can help.” Then, when he hesitated, “Come on, I know I’m not licensed here, but it’s an emergency!”
“It’s not that. The village is a few hours away, deep in the forest. There’s cartel activity around there. And I’m responsible for your safety.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said firmly, and threw a suture kit into the bag.
Guzman stared at me for a second, debating…then he nodded and we ran for the door.
We piled into Marcos’s Landcruiser and were soon barreling down dirt roads. As we crested a hill, I looked in wonder at the forest as it spread out ahead of us. Mile after mile of unbroken green, with only the occasional slash through the canopy where a river or dirt track cut through it. No wonder the cartels moved drugs through here. There was no way the authorities could patrol an area this big.
Dr. Guzman saw my wide eyes. “There are still groups of an indigenous people called the Shuar living around here: that’s how isolated this area is.”
Night had fallen by the time we pulled up at the village. To make matters worse, it had started to rain: a hissing, constant deluge that ran down your face and got in your eyes. The locals rushed around us and hustled us towards the most seriously injured. I was suddenly very grateful that I’d picked up some Spanish, working in Arizona.