Winter World (The Long Winter #1)(33)

But that’s a future problem. I have to deal with my current problems. And figure out who I’m dealing with.

“What’s your name?”

“James. Sinclair.”

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.

“You’re a doctor?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

“I’m sensing a but.”

“But I never practiced. I’m also a mechanical engineer. A robotics and AI designer.”

Didn’t see that coming. He answers my next question before I ask.

“I’m going to build the drones that will survey the artifact.”

“Going to?”

“Yeah, en route.”

“Interesting.”

“It will be. But right now, I need to get your suit off.”

I can’t help but smile and raise an eyebrow.

“For strictly medical purposes,” he adds quickly.

“Says the non-practicing doctor.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the best doctor in this capsule, I can assure you.”

It’s a mediocre joke, but when he smiles, I can’t help but smile too. I like his smile. And I like him. I feel comfortable with him, for whatever reason.

“All right, best doctor in this capsule, proceed.”

He reaches down and unclasps the lower torso assembly of the suit. “I’m a little rusty, but it’s like riding a bike.” He slides the lower torso off and glances up. “Physical exams, that is.”

“Of course.”

I hold my arms up and the upper torso assembly comes off. He must have removed my helmet and communications cap before, when he was doing CPR.

Beneath the outer suit, astronauts wear a liquid-cooled ventilation garment. It’s basically a jump suit with tubing running all over. It keeps us cool up here inside the virtual oven the EMU creates. From James’s report, my ventilation garment must have kept me too cool.

He and I work together until the ventilation garment’s off and I’m lying in my long johns—basically standard cotton underwear, long-sleeve shirt and pants, that wicks away sweat. Even though there’s not much gravity up here, some astronauts wear bras. It’s personal preference. Some wear them to hide the outline of their body, some out of habit. I wore a sports bra during the hours I exercised each day. I’m not wearing one now. The only thing I have on under the long johns is a diaper, and I know it’s probably full to the brim with urine.

I glance at the camera in the corner. I’m about to do a strip show for half of NASA and who knows who else. In space, survival trumps modesty, but I can’t help feeling like a kid on a school field trip who’s just been discovered wetting her pants. The whole class is watching.

He follows my gaze to the camera. “They’re off. Figured the extra bandwidth and comm traffic might trigger another solar event.”

I exhale. “Understood.” My heart’s still beating like a drum.

“It’s just you and me here. All I want to do is help you.”

“Okay.”

That’s about all I can manage to say at the moment.

He doesn’t move. Only waits for me to initiate. He’s giving me control—the option of whether to remove the top or bottom first.

My hands shaking, I hook my thumbs through the waistband of the pants and tug them downward. His hands join mine on the band, and he pulls them off and dives down, closer to my pelvis.

“I’m going to apply some pressure. If it hurts, say ‘pain’ and then a number from one to ten—ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt. If the pain changes, call out a new number.”

“Okay.”

His hands press into my groin, gentle at first, probing, then more forceful. His face is only a few inches from my thighs. He looks up, his eyes meeting mine. I shake my head quickly, telling him I understand, but there’s no pain.

His hands work down my legs, always gentle at first, then firm and forceful, his head down, eyes raking over every square inch of my body.

On my left thigh, a bolt of pain shoots through me.

“Pain. Two.”

He applies more pressure. The pain amplifies, then plateaus.

“Three.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s not that bad.”

“Just a bruise. No fracture.”

On my right knee, pain blossoms as he extends my leg and moves it side to side.

“Pain. Three.”

“Another bruise.”

There are half a dozen other bruises—nothing that rates above a two. My right ankle is the worst. I wince as he wiggles it around.

“Pain. Four.”

He’s methodical, moving it around, pressing with his fingers.

“How about now?”

“Five.”

He looks up. “Sprain. Not bad though. No torn ligaments or fractures.”

He takes a tube from the med kit and spreads a tingly balm all over.

“This is a topical analgesic. It’ll reduce the inflammation and help you heal. Try to favor your other foot for now.”

He wraps it tight, checking periodically to make sure it’s not too tight, then floats up toward my chest and once again waits.

My nerves ratchet up again. I think he’s waiting for me to take my shirt off.