I don’t expect her to understand, but I’m hoping my tone will calm her.
“Hospital,” Diana says. “Krankenhaus. Klinik.” She grabs the second muffin and waves it, as if this is some kind of proof of where we are. Somehow, it works. The woman stops fighting and stares at the muffin.
I pull the eyewash kit from the wall. On the front is a red cross. The symbol for medical care. I hold it up.
“Hospital,” I say. “Krankenhaus.”
The woman pauses. Then her free hand yanks from mine, and she grabs the front of my shirt instead. Her eyes round with desperation as she begins to babble, the way she had last night, the words rushing out.
I set down the eyewash kit, wrap my hand around hers, and lean in carefully. She keeps talking, her voice barely above a whisper, words never stopping even as I glance over at Diana for a translation.
Diana’s eyes widen in panic, and even before she gives a helpless shrug, I know she’s not catching any of this. The woman is talking too fast. I’m considered bilingual, but when Mathias gets caught up in a subject, speaking French, I need to tell him to slow down, much to his annoyance.
“Can you tell her to speak slower?” I ask.
Relief floods Diana’s eyes as she nods. “Kannst du bitte langsamer sprechen?” she says, several times.
The woman doesn’t even glance Diana’s way. She just keeps frantically trying to communicate with me.
“Do you speak any English?” I say.
No response.
“Parlez-vous français?” I try.
She stops, and I think I have it, but she’s only pausing for breath, no recognition in her gaze.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” I ask.
She’s taking deep breaths, but there’s no response.
“Did you understand anything she said?” I ask Diana.
“I … I think maybe … a word or two?”
“Are we sure it’s German?”
“I…”
“Shit,” I mutter.
The woman starts up again, frantically trying to speak as both Diana and I run through our repertoires of languages.
“Are we sure her hearing isn’t damaged?” Diana says finally. “I do think she’s speaking German. It sounds like it, at least.”
“It’s not,” says a voice.
SIX
I look over to see a stranger, and I give a start. With under two hundred people, Rockton is community policing at its purest, where there’s no excuse for me not to know everyone’s name. Okay, occasionally I’ll blank, but even when I substitute “Hey, there” for “Good morning, Heather,” I still recognize the person as a resident of Rockton. And here, standing in the doorway, is a stranger. Male, white, mid-thirties, light-haired, blue-eyed, taller than average, lean build. That could describe a half dozen residents, but my mind screams an alarm, telling me I don’t—
Oh, shit. Yes, I do.
“Hey, Jay,” I say, putting out a hand. I turn to Diana. “Diana, this is Jay. We brought him in yesterday.”
I’ll blame the chaos of the last twelve hours, which had me forgetting that we hadn’t just been getting supplies in Dawson City. We’d flown three residents to the airport and picked up Jay.
Residents coming and going has become routine in Rockton. Most of those who were here when I arrived are now gone. We lost one of our core militia—Sam—in this round.