The trigger came on the third morning.
Eunice woke, sat up, and with a small, wretched sound, violently threw up.
That was it.
Karlman was on his feet. The data was conclusive. This wasn't a "flu." This wasn't "mundane."
"Get your coat," he said.
"Karlman, I just... I... I'm sick..."
"You are," he said, his voice a steel-trap of 'A-type' terror. "And we... are going. Now. We're going to see Aris."
The drive to the small, brick hospital was a blur of thick, gray fog. It was a horrible, resonant echo of five years ago. But this time, Eunice wasn't collapsed. She was just... miserable. And afraid.
Because he was afraid.
She'd seen his terror. And his terror, his 'A-type', data-driven terror, was never wrong.
"It's... it's back, isn't it?" she whispered, her hand instinctively going to her abdomen. "The... the infection. It... it... grew back."
"We don't know that," Karlman said, his hands gripping the wheel. "We... we are getting data. That's all. We... are... getting... data."
They were a team now. They walked into the ER, not as a warden and a prisoner, but as allies.
Dr. Aris was, blessedly, there. He was older, grayer, his "catcher's mitt" face even more worn. He was semi-retired, but still, as he put it, "consulted on the... interesting... cases."
He saw them, and his face broke into a small, warm smile. "The Dowmans. My... my favorite... 'impossible' case. What's this? Just... a social call? Did you... finally... bring me one of those... those tomatoes... you're always bragging about?"
"Not today, Doctor," Karlman said, his voice tight. "She's... she's sick."
The smile vanished.
In five minutes, Eunice was in a gown, in a room. The same room.
The smell of floor wax. The buzzing yellow light.
"Okay," Aris said, all business. "Talk to me."
They listed the symptoms. "Headache. Persistent. Low-grade fever. Nausea. Fatigue. And... this morning... vomiting."
Aris nodded. He looked at Eunice. "And... the... pain? The... site?"
"No," Eunice said. "It's... it's not... there. It's... it's my head. And... I... I just... I feel... awful. Dizzy."
Aris's face was a mask of concentration. He was thinking the same as Karlman. Post-surgical complication. Abscess. Adhesion.
"Okay," he said. "The old... 'A-type' drill. We... we get data. I'm... I'm running a full panel. Chems, CBC. And... I... I am... going to... get a CT scan. With... contrast. I... I want... to look... at the... site. Just... to be safe."
Karlman nodded. "Good. Yes. That's... good. Data."
Eunice just closed her eyes. The war... was back.