I stared at Dr. Fischer. I wasn’t sure what the words meant, but I sure hoped they weren’t Latin for leprosy or German for something even worse. Etienne might have been able to translate, but I’d insisted that he hang out in the waiting room and attempt to catch forty winks before the sun rose. He hadn’t slept all night, so he was running on fumes. “I’m sorry. Contact what?” It was 4:13 am, and we seemed to be stuck in the middle of the Munich version of Groundhog Day. Same emergency ward. Same treatment room. Same attending physician, who was apparently on duty 24/7 at the hospital. The only difference was the patient, who was sporting a grisly rash on her face and hands that included irregular swelling, inflammation, scaly patches, and welts the size of jawbreakers. “Your grandmother appears to be suffering from a severe reaction to an allergen.” “It’s not leprosy?”
