Why You Were Taken

BORROWED SCRUBS ₁₉

Johannesburg, 2021

The man dressed as a nurse puts his latex-covered fingers on William Soraya’s wrist, feels his pulse. It is slow and steady. There was no need to do it: the athlete is hooked up to all kinds of monitoring equipment. He fusses about the room, rearranging giant bouquets of flowers and baskets of fruit and candy. He admires the medal – Soraya’s first Olympic gold – on the bedside table. Its placement seems a desperate plea: You were once the fastest man in the world, you can beat this. Please wake up.

The nurse takes what looks like a pen out of his pocket, clicks it as if he is about to write on Soraya’s chart, and spikes the tube of the IV with it. It is slow-acting enough to give him the ninety seconds he will need to leave the hospital. No alarms will be going off while he is still here. He takes the medal and slips it into his trouser pocket as he moves. It is cold against his thigh.

It’s a bitterbright feeling for him, leaving while his mark is still breathing. Doesn’t feel right, especially after the accident he engineered didn’t prove to be fatal. Still, he thinks, there will be others. He walks down the passage as quickly as he can without alerting anyone. He breathes hot air into his medimask, requisite for any doctor, nurse, patient or visitor in the hospital. It’s large and covers most of his face, which is most fortunate. Ironically, hospitals are one of the easiest places to kill people. His borrowed scrubs cover his other distinguishing characteristics, apart from his generous build, and height. But no one will say: there was a nurse in there with a burnt arm.