Kevin Kordziel

CHAPTER 1

Barreling along the twisty woodland path thrills Justin Jankowski in the same way as night running. Poplars and maples loom around each bend then rush by in a blur of motion, creating the impression that Justin’s moving faster than his current fitness allows. Obstacles add to the excitement: low-hanging branches threaten facial lacerations; roots and rocks jeopardize his footing. A craving to recapture the euphoria of his collegiate cross-country days has lured Justin to this network of Virginia trails at an hour when other young professionals are still hitting the snooze button.

Given Justin’s singular focus on what lies ahead, it's fitting that the day’s first shock comes upon him from behind. The footfalls of another runner recalibrate his perception of velocity. Seconds later the runner draws even and, with a courteous nod, pulls ahead. This harrier’s speed isn’t the only cause for surprise. The baggy attire and baseball cap, revealing the back of a closely cropped head, can’t hide her gender. A brunette with facial features that would be the envy of a cosmetics model and lithe build of an Olympic miler, Justin pegs her for mid-twenties, five years his junior.

He pushes the pace, but she pulls farther ahead with every stride, soon disappearing around the next bend. A shriek lances the tranquil morning air. Justin rounds the turn and startles at the sight of her sprawled body. She struggles to sit up, clutching her right foot. A board clings to the bottom of her white running shoe.

“You okay?”

Her magnetic brown eyes scrutinize him with an intensity that would expose any pretense. “Stepped on a nail. Stuck in my foot. Really hurts. Not sure if I should pull it out.”

“Mind if I have a look? I’m a medical doctor. Justin.”

“Seriously?” She forces a grimace into a smile. “I’m Sarah.”

Justin approaches and kneels. The nail point seems to be lodged deeply in her foot. Removing it will worsen the bleeding.

“First-aid kit in my car. Back in fifteen minutes?”

She nods. “Please hurry.”

Adrenaline, ignited by concern for his unexpected patient and desire to learn more about her, propels Justin at a pace he didn’t think possible. He retraces the path to his car in just over five minutes. Medical kit in hand, he’s forced to slow on the way back.

“You’re early,” Sarah says as he rounds the last turn. She’s lying on her back, injured foot propped on a branch she must have dragged from the side of the trail.

Despite her brave façade, Justin’s concerned by the amount of blood soaked into the shoe and her wan complexion.

“Let’s get this thing out, apply a disinfectant cream, and bandage the wound. Okay?”

Sarah nods. Justin arranges the field dressing materials and grabs the board with both hands.

“This won’t be pleasant.”

“Go ahead.”

She closes her eyes. Justin pulls, gently at first, gradually increasing the pressure until the nail begins to move. It exits smoothly. He removes her shoe, cuts off the blood-soaked sock, and dabs the wound. A scab is forming around the edges, seemingly far too soon.

Justin applies disinfectant and covers the wound with a thick gauze pad. Something else is odd. Only when he pauses to tuck the bloody sock and cloth wipe into a plastic bag inside his medical kit and grab a roll of tape to secure the bandage does it register that Sarah hasn’t opened her eyes, flinched, or made a sound.

“This will hold until we get you to a hospital. You should have a blood test for tetanus antibodies, and an x-ray to check for any damage to your bones and soft tissue.”

“No hospital. I’ll be fine.”

Justin is about to push back, but Sarah’s steely gaze freezes him. “Let me help you home, at least, and explain the kind of symptoms that will require medical attention. Where’s your car?”

“Ran here. I live nearby.”

“Really? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s the way I like it.”

CHAPTER 2

They’re in Justin’s Honda CRV, navigating a one-lane road in Loudoun County, Virginia, maybe 40 miles west of Washington, DC, 7 miles from his apartment in Leesburg, and 3 miles from the nature preserve where they’d been running. Windows at half-mast, Justin seeks his fill of fresh air before surrendering his freedom to the antiseptic confines of Dulles Hospital. No hint of humidity, a rare pleasure for early June, and the azure sky, unblemished by cloud or contrail, portends the kind of day when anything is possible.

Justin glances at Sarah. She’s reclining, eyes closed, but he senses she’s more interested in silence than repose.

Attempts to draw her out during their three-legged shuffle to the car yielded little. Sarah claimed to be self-employed, never attended college, and, despite her athletic gifts, professed disinterest in competitive running. Justin stopped probing for information and allowed himself to savor the feeling of her arm around his shoulder and the cadence of their conjoined bodies as he helped her limp along.

“I’m the next right.”

Justin slows and scans the roadside. He nearly overlooks the narrow dirt turn-off, overhung by trees and lacking mailbox or address number. A no trespassing sign offers the only hint of residency.

Just wide enough to accommodate his car, the driveway enters a parcel of undeveloped land. Overgrown vegetation brushes the vehicle’s roof and windows.

Twenty yards in, they reach a thick chain, stretched between two iron posts. Sarah opens her door, hobbles over to the chain, and dials a padlock combination. The chain clatters to the ground.

The driveway slices through the wooded plot, ending at a clearing, where an early model Honda Pilot rests alongside a peculiar dwelling. Roughly thirty feet wide, with a gently sloped roof no higher than fifteen feet at its peak, the wooden cabin is the sort that’s assembled from a kit. Justin parks next to the Pilot. An array of ground-mounted solar panels stands in formation to the left of the tiny dwelling. A fenced vegetable garden stretches across the back of the clearing.

“Cool place,” Justin says.

“Thanks for everything,” Sarah says. “Not sure what I would’ve done without you. Didn’t even have my phone.” She opens the car door and turns to him. “I can make it inside on my own.”

“Let me help. Once you’re settled, I’ll be on my way.”

Sarah hesitates. “Thanks, Justin. You’re too kind.”

A front porch, sheltered by an overhanging eave and furnished with a round café table and two folding chairs, leads to the entrance. Two doors are visible. Sarah points to the one on the right.

“That’s the only way to my bathroom. Not ideal, especially in the winter. Fortunately, I have electricity, well water, and a septic system.”

Justin averts his eyes while Sarah taps a combination into the keypad on the left door, and they enter the main living space. A large front window provides ample natural light. The modern sofa and coffee table scream IKEA, and the machine-made geometrical rug completes the collegiate decor. A flat-screen TV is the only nod to modern technology, but it relies on an antenna for reception.

Sarah invites him to sit beside her on the sofa. She props the injured foot on the coffee table, and the baseball cap finally comes off, giving Justin his first look at her hair. The spikey, close-cropped style is one that few women could pull off. If intended to downplay Sarah’s attractiveness, the ploy failed. The short cut accentuates her almond-shaped eyes and flawless, olive skin. It’s as if her beauty amalgamates the loveliest features of each nation’s representative in a Miss Universe pageant.

He notices something peculiar about her fingernails. Those on her left hand don’t extend beyond the fingertips, while the nails on her right hand are long and unusually shaped.

Sarah’s one arguable imperfection, a gap between her front teeth, adds a naturalness that only enhances her allure. Justin feels self-conscious next to her. Old insecurities over his skinny runner’s build and prominent ears come rushing back.

“How’s the foot?”

“Still hurts, but not nearly as much. Looks like the bleeding stopped.”

Indeed, no blood has soaked through the bandage. Justin has lingering concerns about tetanus but shifts to the other unavoidable topic.

“Mind me asking why you’re living this way? One might think you’re a Luddite or determined to stay off the grid.”

Sarah laughs. “I value my privacy and enjoy being close to nature. Help me up, and I’ll show you around.”

There’s a galley kitchen to the right of the main room. Sarah leads him through a beaded doorway curtain on the backside. The room is configured as a study, with an antique desk, straight-backed wooden chair, and bookshelf packed with classics that Justin hasn’t thought about since his undergrad days. Some have the timeworn look of first editions.

Yet music, not literature or office work, holds dominion here. Two classical guitars and a steel-stringed acoustic model rest in floor stands. Books of sheet music, many yellowed with age, spill across the desk, and an ornate, cast-iron music stand cradles a tortuous-looking Bach piece entitled Chaconne BWV 1004.

Four oil paintings, which Justin makes as impressionist reproductions or modern originals in that style, adorn the walls. A stunning portrait of Sarah playing guitar, but with longer hair and wearing a style of dress you see in nineteenth century paintings, outshines the others.

Old World-style knickknacks abound. A gilt clock, mounted on a bronze elephant statue, perches on the desk. A knee-high Chinese ceramic vase stands in a corner. A museum-quality Kashan rug ties it all together, and Justin can’t imagine how IKEA Sarah and Biltmore Sarah coexist under one roof.

“I have a tiny bedroom through that door, and the ladder in the corner leads to an attic. Neither is worth seeing. What do you think?”

“I think I’d love to hear you play the guitar. Only if you’re feeling up to it, of course.”

His request pleases Sarah. She lifts the older-looking classical guitar from its stand and hobbles over to the chair. The familiar melody, an intricate, classical arrangement of a Beatles song from Abbey Road, takes a while for him to place.

Sarah plays from memory, left hand dancing up and down the neck in a series of contorted fingerings, adding a touch of vibrato here and there, right hand plucking with varying intensity. The discrepancy in fingernail length now makes sense. Short nails on her left hand enable her fingertips to press down the strings; long nails on her plucking hand, filed in the shape of picks, amplify the sound.

There’s a symphonic complexity to the seamless melody and harmony that Sarah coaxes from the simple instrument. Justin is mesmerized until the final chord fades away.

“Wow. Where did you learn to play like that?”

“Been playing forever. Amazing teachers over the years. That’s my own arrangement of Because, the last Beatles song written by John Lennon. I love its classical roots. John based the chord progression on Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata after hearing Yoko play it on the piano.”

“You must be a professional musician.”

“If covering expenses by playing gigs in coffee shops and weddings count, I guess you could say that. Enough about me. What kind of doctor are you?”

“Finished my residency as a general surgeon this year. Been a blur since medical school. COVID hit during my residency. Insane hours until the pandemic was under control.”

Justin glances at his watch. “Which reminds me, I need to get going, or I’ll be late for work.”

“Thanks for everything.”

“I still think you should have your foot examined to make sure there’s no infection or internal damage.”

“I’ll see how it feels tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Justin says. “I enjoyed getting to know you and would . . . uh, I mean, do you think maybe I could take you to dinner sometime when you’re feeling better?” Justin can’t believe the tangled nightmare his tongue has become.

Sarah retreats into her thoughts again, and Justin braces for rejection. “That sounds nice, Justin. But I’m not ready for a relationship right now.”

“I understand,” Justin says, unable to hide his disappointment. “I’ll leave you my phone number anyway. In case you have any medical questions.” He manages a grin. “Or change your mind about dinner.”

CHAPTER 3

Back at his apartment for a quick shower and breakfast, Justin remembers that Sarah’s blood-soaked sock and the bloody wipe remain in a zipped freezer bag inside his medical kit. He retrieves the kit from his car and is about to trash the freezer bag when something makes him pause.

Sarah’s unwillingness to seek medical care for a serious puncture wound is peculiar. Tetanus and internal damage are risks that she shouldn’t disregard. Then again, she’s a competent adult, capable of making her own medical decisions. Justin informed her of the risks and should respect her decision, the same way he would if she were a regular patient.

But Justin’s subconscious continues to tug in another direction. Sarah gives the impression of someone hiding from her past, perhaps from an abusive relationship. Someone who is socially isolated and in need of a good friend.

He also must acknowledge the romantic pull he feels. More than her otherworldly beauty is at work here. Justin almost wishes she were ordinary looking so that his interest wouldn’t be misconstrued as lust.

Sarah has a poise and depth rarely seen in a woman this young, and he feels compelled to understand more about her. Justin realizes the intensity of his feelings borders on obsession, imagining this is how stalkers rationalize their behavior. Yet his intentions are honorable, and despite some lingering misgivings, Justin cannot ignore what his gut tells him to do.

He extracts a filter paper card from the medical kit and removes the bloody sock and wipe from the ziplocked bag. The thick sock is still wet, and he manages to squeeze four drops of blood onto the card. After the blood dries, he seals the card in a plastic bag and pockets it in his hospital scrubs. He throws the bloody items into his kitchen trash can, then noticing the receptacle is full, takes the bag with him when he exits the apartment and tosses it down the building’s garbage chute.

On the drive to the hospital, he grapples with the legality and ethics of what he’s contemplating. Privacy laws require patient consent before conducting medical tests. But what harm is there in running a dried blood spot test to check for tetanus antibodies? If the DBS test reveals that her antibody count is too low, he can stop by her place after work, convince her to get a booster vaccine, and make another attempt to befriend her.

Justin understands the serious consequences if he’s caught violating privacy laws and hospital procedures. Yet again, his compulsion to help Sarah overrides his conscious decision-making, convincing him that this is a manageable risk. Nobody else needs to know whose blood is on that card.

Justin drops off the sample at the hospital lab before his shift begins, along with instructions to expedite and paperwork mislabeling it as his own blood. The lab technician on duty, Harley Buford, a burly young guy with a buzz cut, bad case of wrestler’s ear, and attitude of someone who feels overqualified for his job, questions the use of a DBS test instead of a traditional serological test.

Justin claims he’s too busy for a standard blood draw. Harley arches his eyebrows at this flimsy excuse but says he’ll let Justin know if the DBS test proves insufficient.

Justin works on autopilot all morning. While his well-trained hands execute an appendectomy and tonsillectomy, two routine procedures he has performed dozens of times, his mind continues puzzling over the enigmatic Sarah.

Justin is exiting the cafeteria after a late lunch when he feels his phone vibrate. It’s a call from the lab.

“Dr. J, you need to come by right away,” Harley says. “There’s something you’ve got to see to believe.”

The nickname Dr. J had stuck after a colleague began using it to taunt him during the pickup basketball games played by some of the younger doctors and staff. Julius Erving he is not.

When Justin arrives at the lab, he spots Harley in the far corner, his beefy torso hunched over a microscope. He startles at Justin’s voice, then waves him over.

“The antibody test revealed a freakish blood chemistry. No white blood cells or other markers of a normal immune system. I punched another hole in the sample card and viewed it under the microscope. Check this out.”

Justin peers into the eyepiece. The object’s body has the round shape of a white blood cell, but the protruding antennae and pincer claws on one side, and flagellum on the other, give the appearance of an exotic insect.

“What do you think it is?”

“Guessing it’s a nanobot,” Harley says. “Nanotech researchers have been trying to develop microscopic robots they can inject into the bloodstream to fight cancer and other diseases.”

Harley looks Justin dead in the eye. “This isn’t your blood, Dr. J, is it?”

“I’ll need that DBS card back now, Harley. Including anything you retained for testing or examination.”

Harley seems taken aback by the edge in Justin’s voice, a commanding side he seldom shows. He opens his mouth, brows furrowed. After pausing a beat, he says, “You’re the boss, Dr. J.”

Harley retrieves the DBS card and microscope slide, places them in a plastic bag, and hands them to Justin. “Here’s everything.”

“Thanks, Harley. And please keep quiet about this. I don’t need to remind you about privacy rights.”

Justin strides across the lab toward the exit, avoiding eye contact with two other technicians. Wanda Zheng is typing away on a computer, and Brandon Pence is washing his hands. Were they close enough to overhear anything?