Not a thing to worry about, they had promised him during his orientation. The fighting is confined to the countryside.

He walks toward the immigrations building, passing a pair of bloated corpses pushed against the fence. A mother and daughter, to judge by the way they hold each other, though it’s hard to tell because of the flies.

“You’re Ransom?”

A battered military jeep trawls alongside him. A young, suntanned woman with wild auburn hair pulled into a ponytail grasps the oversized steering wheel. “You?” she shouts to be heard over the roar of a departing transport. “You’re Dr. Ransom? Get in. I’ll rescue you from this circus.”

Jonathan throws his bag into the back of the jeep. “I thought the fighting was out in the country,” he says.

“This isn’t fighting. This is ‘dialogue.’ Haven’t you been reading the papers?” She extends a hand. “Emma Rose. Delighted.”

“Yeah,” says Jonathan. “Back at ya.”

They drive through the worst slums he has ever seen, a wall of poverty five miles long and ten stories high. The city stops abruptly. The countryside takes over, as quiet and lush as the city is noisy and barren.

“First posting, is it?” she asks. “They always send the newbies.”

“Why’s that?”

Emma doesn’t respond. A Mona Lisa smile passes for her answer.

The hospital is a converted sumphouse situated on the edge of a mangrove swamp. Dozens of women and children lie idle in the grass and the red, scalloped mud surrounding the drab building. It’s apparent that many are injured, some severely. Their silence is an affront.

“We get a group like this every few days,” says Emma, stopping the jeep around the back. “Mortar attacks. Thankfully, most of the wounds are superficial.”

Jonathan glimpses a boy with a chunk of shrapnel the size of a three iron jutting from his calf. “Superficial,” meaning he won’t bleed to death.

A short, bearded man with bloodshot eyes greets Ransom warmly. He is Dr. Delacroix from Lyon. “Good thing the plane was on time,” he says, wiping his hands on a blood-caked T-shirt. “The girl in OR two is yours. Chop-chopped her right hand.”

“Chop-chopped?”

“You know?” Delacroix makes a gesture like a guillotine falling. “Took a machete to it.”

“Where do I scrub?” asks Jonathan.

“Scrub?” Dr. Delacroix exchanges a tired look with Emma. “You can wash your hands in the lavatory. You’ll find some gloves in there, too. Save them. We try to use each pair at least three times.”

Afterward, Jonathan stands on the patch of alkali dirt outside the field hospital that serves as terrace, reception, and triage area. At midnight, the air is wet with heat, populated with the cries of howler monkeys and the punctuation of small arms fire.

“Coffee?” Emma hands him a cup. She looks different from when he saw her earlier. Thinner, smaller even, no longer so full of piss and vinegar.

“No O positive,” says Jonathan. “We lost two patients because we didn’t have enough blood.”

“You saved a few.”

“Yes, but…” He shakes his head, overwhelmed. “Is it always like this?”

“Only every other day.”

It is Jonathan’s turn not to reply.

Emma looks at him thoughtfully. “The older ones won’t come,” she says after a moment.

“Excuse me?”

“You wanted to know why they only sent the newbies. That’s the reason. It’s too hard after a while. All this gets to you. It wears you down. The older ones can’t handle it. They say you can only look at so many dead people before you start feeling dead yourself.”

“I can understand.”

“Not like Blighty, is it?” Emma goes on, her tone sympathetic, comrade to comrade. “I saw you were at Oxford. I was at St. Hilda’s. Comparative Political Systems.”

“You mean you’re not a doctor?”

“God no. I’ve got my practical nursing on the side, but admin’s my thing. Logistics and all that. If we ever do have enough O positive, you’ll have me to thank.”

“I didn’t mean to-” Jonathan begins to apologize.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t tell at first whether you were English. Your accent, I mean. I thought either Scottish or London by way of Central Europe. Prague or something.”

“Me? I’m from the southwest. Cornwall, that area. We all talk funny down there. Near Land’s End. Penzance. You know it?”

“ Penzance? In a way.” He takes a breath, and though he knows he will look foolish, he puffs up his chest and recites in a sing-song voice:

I’m very well-acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,

About binomial theorem I’m teeming with a lot o’ news,

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

When she says nothing, he adds, “Gilbert and Sullivan. Pirates of Penzance. Don’t tell me you don’t know the Modern Major-General?”

Suddenly, Emma bursts out laughing. “Of course I do. One simply isn’t used to hearing that in the wilds of Africa. My God. A fan.”

“Not me. My dad. He was a diplomat. We lived all over the place. Switzerland, Italy, Spain. Wherever we moved, he joined the light opera. He could sing that song in English, German, and French.”

A driving backbeat lifts to them across the crowded night sky. The electric thump of a funky bass. Emma tilts her head in its direction. “The Muthaiga Club. Great dance spot. They don’t do the Mikado, though, I’m afraid.”

“The Muthaiga Club’s in Nairobi. I saw Out of Africa.”

“So did I,” she whispers, standing on her tiptoes. “Don’t tell anybody I pinched the name. You coming?”

“Dancing?” He shakes his head. “I’ve been up way too long. I’m fried.”

“So?” Emma takes his hand and leads him toward the source of the pulsing music.

Jonathan resists. “Thanks, but really, I’ve got to rest.”

“That’s the old you talking.”

“The old me?”

“The chief resident. The terrible drudge. The one who wins all those awards and fellowships.” She tugs his hand. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you I was admin. I read your papers. Want some advice? The old you, the one who works far too hard. Forget about him. He won’t last a week out here.” Emma’s voice drops a notch, and he can’t be sure if she’s serious or scandalous. “This is Africa. Everyone gets a new life here.”

Later, after the dancing and the home brew and the wild, joyous singing, she leads him out of the club, away from the throbbing drums and the swarming bodies, into the bush. They walk through a grove of casuarinas along a footpath, a scratch in the night shadow, until they reach a clearing. Above them a howler monkey lets go with a cry, then bandies from tree to tree. She turns to him, her eyes locked on his, hair askew, falling about her face.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, a hand going to his belt, pulling him toward her.

Jonathan has been waiting for her, too. Not for weeks, or months, but longer. In the space of a day, she has seized him. He is kissing her and she is kissing back. He runs a hand beneath her shirt, feeling the hard, moist skin, sliding it higher, cupping a breast. She bites his lip and presses herself into him. “I’m a good girl, Jonathan. Just so you know going in.”

She unbuttons his shirt and smooths it off his shoulders. A palm rubs his chest, then moves lower. Stepping back, she pulls her T-shirt over her head and kicks off her jeans. She devours his hungry regard.