After the front door closed, Isobel stood for a long time, just staring straight ahead.

This might be the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.

But it was done, and just as well, and if she told herself that over and over again, maybe it would become true.

She spent the rest of Friday eating all the sugar and fat she could find in the kitchen. As she sucked a spoon of egg toddy, everything Alexander had said replayed over and over in her head. Like some terrible film with an unsympathetic heroine and crappy ending. She could just hear Leila’s voice over it all, as an accusing soundtrack.

You’re so judgmental, Isobel. You think you’re better than other people.

She fell asleep with the uncomfortable feeling that Alexander was right in all respects, and she was wrong.

Saturday offered gray weather. The idea of going out was just too overwhelming, so she tidied instead. She liked to tidy. To wipe, vacuum, and polish. To throw away paper, create order, and regain a sense of control. On Saturday evening, she went down to the 7-Eleven, ignoring all of the laughing, happy, party-going people, and bought candy and coffee for extortionate prices, and then slouched back up to her couch to obsess over Alexander and how alive he made her feel. She hadn’t thought there was a stronger sensation than how you felt going out into the field. The feeling of being 100 percent alive. But she had found it with Alexander, and now she had ruined it. Again.

She chewed on banana-flavored candy, enjoying the artificial taste she knew she ought to find repulsive but secretly loved. If she was honest with herself, and maybe it was about time, it had been so liberating to let someone in. And Alexander had really seen her. It couldn’t be her imagination. And despite the words she so rashly had spat at him, she had long since known that he wasn’t a bad person. Just the opposite.

He’s all you’ve ever wanted, Isobel, the persistent voice in her head kept repeating.

But she had pushed him away. Because she was afraid. Afraid of what it would mean to like, maybe even love, a man like Alexander. Afraid of what it said about her. She remained on the sofa, chewing, crying until she fell asleep.

Sunday morning began with her phone buzzing so violently on the coffee table that it was practically jumping up and down.

Isobel, used to springing into action from one moment to the next, was immediately wide-awake, knew that no one called at six on a Sunday morning unless it was an emergency. Leila, she read on the screen. Her pulse picked up, and her brain kicked into gear.

What is it this time?

“Isobel Sørensen.”

“It’s not good.” Leila’s voice was curt, professional. The voice people used in their field of work when all other options had been exhausted.

“Tell me. What happened?”

“Idris is sick. Really sick. They don’t have a doctor now.”

“What does he have?”

Isobel ticked off the symptoms in her head and worked it out before Leila answered, “Meningitis.”

God, Idris, if you die now …

Isobel was already getting to her feet. “I have to go,” she said.

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. There’s a plane tomorrow. We got the last cheap seat. Are you sure? I need to let them know right away—they won’t reserve it otherwise.”

She wanted to go, desperately. But she knew she was also fleeing—again. She needed time to think. Should she talk to Alexander? Explain herself and try to fix everything. Was it even possible? But her own needs were, of course, petty in comparison to the needs of the pediatric hospital.

“I’m sure,” she replied, on her way toward the chest of drawers in her bedroom.

Passport. Ziplock bags full of toiletries. Vaccination record. She went through the necessities she needed to take with her. Malaria tablets, duct tape, water purification tablets. Brushed everything else aside. It would have to wait.

“I’ll call the airline,” Leila said, hanging up.

The Arlanda Express train was full, and Isobel had to stand all the way to the airport the next morning. She was first to get off, grabbed her worn, old rucksack and headed for the check-in counters.

Alexander hadn’t called, of course. She had been awful, had more or less thrown him out. Maybe she had said things he wouldn’t or couldn’t forgive this time. She irresolutely played with her cell phone but chose the easy way out and boarded the plane without calling or sending a message.

She took a wrong turn during her stopover in Atatürk Airport in Istanbul, Turkey, and was close to missing her connecting flight, and when they finally landed in N’Djamena, several hours late, it was well past midnight. The sky was dark when she stepped off the plane, the constellations different from back home, and the sensations the same as ever: warm, dusty, and loud, despite the late hour.

She found her bag and went through security, past armed men. She was surprised when no one came to meet her outside. She paused, knew it could be dangerous to venture out alone. But it was equally dangerous to wait around, so she hailed a cab and made her way to the hotel Leila had managed to book, without any trouble. She checked in with the yawning receptionist and went up to the room, where she managed to take off her shoes, fix a hole in the mosquito net with the duct tape, and shake the bedclothes for insects before crawling into bed.

“Bonjour, madame,” a girl said politely when Isobel came down the next morning. The girl looked about five, but she was probably at least nine. No adults turned up; the girl seemed to be the only person working in the entire hotel. Isobel paid, and the child carefully folded the notes and then placed them in an ancient cash register. Isobel hesitated, but when no one else appeared, she took her backpack and stepped out into the dust, the heat, and the deafening traffic of N’Djamena. It seemed to be market day—carriages, animals, and carts with merchandise crowded the streets. She caught sight of a man who was watching her, feeling a prickling sensation when she recognized him as Muhammed, the father of baby Ahmed. He just stared at her, his bird’s feet tattoos making his face ominous. And then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd in the streets. She let out a sigh of relief. Maybe she had just imagined it. She still had two of the bottles of water she’d bought in Istanbul, plus an energy bar, so she decided not to waste any time looking for breakfast and to head straight to the hospital instead. She put on her rucksack, then glanced at her cell phone. Her heart stopped. Alexander had called while she was checking out. And now, a message arrived.

Everything went so wrong. Sorry.

With that, life suddenly felt bright and colorful again. Alexander didn’t hate her. She had been rash and mean, but he would give her another chance, even if she didn’t deserve it.

She quickly replied: So sorry. Was stupid. Landed. Will call tonight.

A car came toward her, its horn blaring. She looked up. A man leaned out of the wound-down window.

“Bonjour, Docteur,” the driver said. “To the hospital?”

Cautiously Isobel nodded at the man, whose name she remembered was Yannick. He was occasionally hired by some of the other humanitarian organizations to drive people around, but he had never done work for Medpax before.

“Wasn’t Hugo meant to pick me up?” she asked, not quite comfortable traveling the long distance to the hospital with a man she didn’t know. No one answered when she called the hospital, and Leila hadn’t had any more information to give her.

Yannick shrugged, a gesture that could mean anything: Hugo is sick. Hugo is away. Hugo is dead. And then she once more caught sight of Muhammed. He was much closer this time, and it was not her imagination. It was him, with a serious, angry expression on his tattooed face.

“Can you drive me?” Isobel asked hastily, her mind made up. She didn’t want to stay in N’Djamena, was eager to get on the way. “Five dollars?”

He shook his head. “Non, madame. Twenty.”

She held up ten, used to this kind of haggling. “That is all,” she said, and he went along with it with a satisfied grin. He leaned over the passenger seat and opened the door for her.

Isobel looked for Muhammed, but once again he had disappeared in the chaotic streets. Hurriedly she walked around the car, put her bag inside, and jumped in. The signal on her cell came and went, and she realized that her answer to Alexander’s text hadn’t been sent, so she pressed send again just as Yannick put his foot on the gas pedal. As the rattling car sent goats and hens scattering to the sides of the road, she saw the message was delivered.

Through the window she took in the swarms of overloaded cars, animals, and people passing by. Aid workers, Chinese guest laborers, and military men. Children everywhere. Lone beggars at crossroads. And then the red landscape, women with baskets and bundles, and more children. It was already so hot that the sweat was pouring down her. She switched between drinking her water and clutching her cell, glad she had left the city. Yet another text arrived, and she read it with a smile. It was crazy, really, that they could keep in touch despite the fact they were on different sides of the equator.

Landed?? Where are you?

For some reason, she had assumed Leila would have told Alexander, but as she was about to reply, the car shook so much she couldn’t press the right buttons. Isobel steadied herself with her hand on the roof and decided to reply when she arrived at the hospital instead. The car careened down the bumpy road. Yannick slowed down and pointed to something in the road ahead of them.

“Checkpoint,” he said.

She saw. It hadn’t been there before. In itself, that meant nothing. Roadblocks had their own unpredictable life cycles, but they were never a welcome hindrance.

Isobel wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. Most of her money was hidden in her bag, but she also had some dollars in a special robbery wallet that she could give them.

Please let it be okay. Just let me get to the hospital.

The two men who strolled up to them were young and armed with automatic weapons. Scarves around their heads, wearing khaki pants and gym shoes. When they peered into the car, she tried to evaluate whether they were high, but then hastily averted her gaze. Don’t provoke them.

“Where are you going?” one of them barked. He was dressed in a red T-shirt and had a long scar running down one cheek. It disappeared beneath his scarf. A machete scar.

“The hospital,” Yannick answered. He nodded at Isobel. “Docteur.”

Isobel could feel their eyes on her, but she continued to look down, to make herself as meek as she could while her heart pounded in her chest, as if she’d run for miles. Her mouth was dry as gravel. A bird shrieked as one of the men reached into the car, and she forced herself not to jerk back. He took her bottle of water. Backed up. Said something to Yannick she didn’t hear and then waved them through.

They passed. When Isobel looked in the rearview mirror, she saw the man who’d taken her water standing with a phone to his ear. She wiped her hands on her pants again, saw them shake.

Yannick sped up, and the roadblock and soldiers disappeared behind them. Isobel leaned back against the seat, exhaled, and forced herself to relax. She watched the flat, red landscape rush by again. The car jumped and shook, but they’d made it.

She smiled weakly at Yannick, still feeling an aftereffect of fear. Yannick simply stared straight ahead, focused on his driving, she assumed. His face was completely empty as he drove. The car slowed down again.

“What’s happening now?” she asked in French, but she saw rocks, sticks, and tires covering the road. The road was narrow here, and there was no way they could drive around it. She wondered how the rubble had ended up there. The car came to a halt. Her impatience to make it to the hospital grew. She wanted to know what was going on, to be rid of this debilitating worry and uncertainty, to get to work. And then she saw a car coming toward them, on the other side of the rubble. It approached rapidly.

“Do you know who they are?” she asked as the other car screeched to a halt and its doors flew open. Several men, she counted six, ran toward them.

“We need to turn around!” she shouted, but Yannick did nothing. He just raised his hands as the men, shouting, circled the car.

It happened so quickly that Isobel had no time to do anything but swear before the doors were torn open. She held up her hands in the air to show she was unarmed. Tall men with angry faces yelled in a local dialect she couldn’t quite understand. How close were they to the hospital? An hour? Fifteen minutes? It made no difference. Suddenly Isobel’s upper arm was in an iron grip, and a man pulled her from the car so violently that she hit her head. Without thinking it through or planning ahead, she pulled her arm toward her as she pushed him away as hard as she could with her free hand. She almost got free, was mentally ready to make a run for it, but a blow hit her on the chest, and it hurt so much that she remained in his painful grip, panting for air.

A hood was placed over her head, and then she had fibers and hair in her mouth. There was no air under the thick, dirty fabric, and panic welled up inside her. Yet another hand took hold of her, this time on her other arm, and she was dragged to her feet. More hands appeared, moving over her, roaming over her body and pulling at her clothes, and she couldn’t help but hysterically fight back. The men continued with their rough manhandling, but then they stopped, and she knew they had been looking for her cell, that they didn’t plan to rip off her clothes and rape her. She heard shouts and yells, muffled and difficult to make out because of the hood, and then she was dragged over the rubble. She stubbed her toe on something and was then thrown into what she assumed was the backseat of the soldiers’ car. Her mouth and nose were pressed down. She hit her head on a hard surface, had something heavy on her back, and then the car started with a roar.

Fragments of the hostage course darted through her mind.

You need to try to work out where they take you. It can mean the difference between life and death.

And then everything went dark.