The Calypso Directive

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The hospital gown he wore was faded and weightless. After hundreds of washings, it was more tissue paper than cloth. Yellow bruises from daily blood draws blotted his forearms like dried coffee stains on paper. Beneath his bare feet, the cold gray linoleum greedily sipped the warmth from his body. Goose flesh stood up on his skin. He ignored all of this. Concerns of the body were not his priority at the moment. He had a job to do, and they would be coming for him soon.

He had sensed a progression of late. A subtle shift in the daily rounds, an unfamiliar urgency in the air. He knew his window of opportunity was closing. They were getting close now, and it was imperative he act before it was too late.

After five months in quarantine, he had not lost focus. Patience was the only compass that could navigate him out of these most impossible of circumstances. Even with his body at its weakest, his spirit had won the hearts of those who tended to him. One of the nurses had even taken to routinely loosening the bindings meant to confine him to his bed each night.

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