The Protocol

"Eamon! Open the door!"

Lucy was pounding on the glass. Her face was twisted in terror. "Eamon, let me in! You're bleeding!"

Eamon shook his head. He backed away from the door, moving toward the emergency decontamination shower in the corner of the room.

"I can't, Lucy," he shouted over the alarm. He tapped his earpiece to activate the internal comms so she could hear him. "I have a cutaneous exposure. The vial broke. The virus is in my bloodstream."

"No," Lucy sobbed, her hands sliding down the glass. "No, no, no. It’s my fault. I bumped the cart. Open it! Let me help you!"

"If I open this door, the negative pressure fails," Eamon said, forcing his voice to be steady. "The virus escapes. You get infected. The hospital gets infected. I have to initiate the decon cycle."

He reached the shower station. He stripped off his lab coat and the torn glove, throwing them into the biohazard incinerator chute. His hand was a mess—deep cuts, blood dripping onto the pristine floor.

"Computer," Eamon commanded. "Initiate Chemical Decontamination. Level 5."

*“Warning,”* the automated voice replied. *“Level 5 utilizes caustic agents. Skin irritation will occur.”*

"Execute," Eamon said.

Jets of chemical foam blasted from the ceiling and walls. It hit Eamon like a physical blow. It was cold, smelling of bleach and ammonia. It burned his eyes and stung the open cuts on his hand.

He sank to the floor, scrubbing at his arm with a rough brush, trying to scour the virus away before it could take hold.

Through the haze of the chemicals and the glass wall, he could see Lucy.

She had collapsed on the floor of the airlock. She wasn't banging on the glass anymore. She was just crying. Deep, racking sobs that shook her small frame. She looked like a broken doll in pink scrubs.

"I did this," she wailed into the intercom. "I killed you. I just wanted to bring you a cupcake. I’m so stupid. I’m so clumsy."

Eamon’s heart broke. The physical pain of the chemicals was nothing compared to the pain of watching her cry.

He crawled toward the glass, ignoring the foam stinging his eyes. He sat against the door.

"Lucy," he said. "Lucy, look at me."

She looked up. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red and swollen. "I'm sorry, Eamon. I'm so sorry."

"Listen to the data," Eamon said, his voice shaking. "The incubation period is twelve hours. The transmission rate via cutaneous contact is 40%. The chemical shower reduces viral load by 90%. I have a statistical chance."

"Stop it!" Lucy screamed. "Stop being a nerd! Stop giving me math! You're hurt!"

"Math is how I cope, Lucy," Eamon whispered. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass. "It’s how I make sense of things."

"You pushed me out," she sobbed. "You saved me."

"It was the only logical choice," Eamon lied.

It wasn't logic. It was instinct. It was the only variable that mattered.

"You're going to be okay," Lucy said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "You have to be okay. Because if you die, I’m never going to forgive myself. I’ll quit medicine. I swear I will."

"You can't quit," Eamon said softly. "You're going to be a great pediatrician. The kids love you. You bring them stickers. And cupcakes."

Lucy let out a choked laugh that turned into a sob. "I brought you a cupcake."

"I know," Eamon said. "It looked delicious."

The chemical spray finally stopped. The room fell silent, save for the hum of the ventilation system sucking the toxic air out.

Eamon shivered. He was soaked, chemically burned, and bleeding. He sat there in the puddle of foam, looking at the girl he loved, separated by three inches of bulletproof glass.

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