Intravenous therapy.”
Ashley stroked the bruise on the back of her hand. “So this—maybe it’s from an IV?”
“Here’s a doctor’s card. You can probably call and find out.” Diana showed her a business card stapled to one of the sheets of paper. “And look, this is an FAQ on trypanosomiasis.”
“What?” Ashley’s hand flew to her throat.
Diana read down. “It’s a kind of sleeping sickness.”
“Sleeping sickness? But how . . . ? Isn’t that something people get in Africa?”
“You weren’t in Africa.”
“Duh.” Ashley felt under her chin, like she was looking for swollen lymph nodes. Then she let her head fall back onto the pillow. “I may look okay but I feel terrible. Like my head is packed with wet wool.”
“Apparently you had the nonlethal variety. This says you might be somewhat disoriented for a few days. Your sleep can be disrupted for up to two weeks. It’s important not to get dehydrated.” Diana went into the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and brought it back. She handed Ashley the glass. “How on earth did you manage to contract sleeping sickness?”
Ashley sat up and took a sip. “How? Well—” She set the glass down and sat up taller. “Maybe from a hotel guest? I ran a wedding at the hotel. Last weekend. The bride was from Nigeria or South Africa, I can’t remember which. Or . . . on the plane? I read about how airplanes harbor all kinds of lethal stowaways. Rats with bubonic plague.” That thought seemed to perk her up considerably. “Disease-infected spiders. All it takes is one, hiding in one of those blankets.”
“There are no more blankets.”
“There are in business class.” Ashley finished off the water.
“Ashley, what’s the last thing you remember?”
Ashley sank back against the pillows and squeezed her eyes shut. “I remember . . .” She opened her eyes. “Dumping Aaron.” She smiled.
“He called to apologize.”
The smile grew broader. “He did?”
“Do you remember Superman?”
Ashley’s brow wrinkled. “Coming out of the hotel window. And a man came up to me.”
“Ashley, this is important. Did you recognize him?”
Ashley looked confused. “His face was kind of covered.”
“Do you think it could have been Aaron?”
“Aaron?” Ashley considered it. “No way. I’d have recognized him. This man, he acted like we were old friends. He thought I was—” She broke off the thought, her jaw dropping as realization kicked in. “He called me Nadia.”
“Of course. You were registered as my avatar. Ashley, do you have any idea what happened next? I’ve looked at videos taken during the improv event and it looks as if you walked off with that guy who approached you. You might have gotten into a car with him.”
“All I remember is being downtown. Superman’s in the air. That guy’s got his arm around me, which is kind of freaking me out. Then . . .” Ashley touched her upper arm. “Then . . . then nothing. It’s like the movie just stops. Except for nightmares.”
“What kind of nightmares?”
Ashley shuddered. “A long worm tracking slime up my arm. Headless talking Ken dolls.”
“So you don’t remember being in the hospital? Getting a CT scan? Getting released this morning? Driving your car back?”
“None of it.” Ashley picked up the sheaf of hospital forms and shook them at Diana. “Four days, I was out of it. Sleeping sickness! Go figure.”
A half page of paper fluttered to the bed. Diana picked it up. “You’ve got a script for Ambien here.”
“More sleep. Just what I need.” Ashley put her hand to her chest. Then her stomach. “Know what? I think I’m hungry. Starving, in fact. And what is that smell?” She sniffed her own armpit and made a face. “You think I can take a shower?”
“You feel up to it?”
Ashley swung her legs out of bed and Diana helped her stand.
“Whoa,” Ashley said, holding on to Diana’s shoulder.
“Want me to go in with you?”
Ashley gave her a horrified look. “Just give me a minute.”
Ashley steadied herself. Finally she pushed Diana away and headed for the bathroom. Diana started after her but Ashley put up her hand. “I’m okay. Really, I’m okay.” She left the room, crossed the hall, and shut the bathroom door behind her.
Diana put the hospital forms together and straightened the pile. She clipped the prescription to the top. Its letterhead read COMPASSIONATE CARE MEDICAL, P.C. with an address in Boston’s Back Bay. The list of physicians included Dr. William Kennedy—the doctor whose business card they had. But the physician’s signature scrawled at the bottom was not Dr. Kennedy’s. Instead,