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1. When you first see the glass vial shattered on the floor and the AC running on full, realise that you are in serious trouble. The clock is ticking; your time is already running out. Ciprofloxacin can’t save you now.
2. Keep yourself contained. Even if that means having to watch the rest of the team pale with worry on the other side of a glass door. You were always front of the queue when it came to self-sacrificing, but you know you’d do anything to keep them safe. Don't think about the last time you spoke with them face to face, in the bullpen, when all you talked was work and left without saying goodbye.
3. Don't show fear. Don't let them see the tremor in your hands or hear the waver in your voice as panic threatens to explode out of your chest. Suppress the emerging tickle in the back of your throat and the pricking of tears in your eyes and get back to the task at hand. Pretend that everything is okay, that this is just another search in another house. It doesn’t work, but keep telling yourself anyway.
4. Phone Garcia. Record a message for your mother. The words are painfully inadequate, but you know they always would be. Don’t tell Garcia how many times you’ve thought about doing this over the last few years. Don’t think about your mother playing this on repeat, trying to make sense of why her son doesn’t visit anymore, why he hasn’t written to her in weeks. Try not to choke on every word.
5. Refuse any pain medication offered. As much as it would take the edge off, you fear it will render you useless. Remember the cravings, the cold sweats, turning the bottles over and over in your hands as you fantasise about drifting off into your own mind. Don’t mention how much you crave it right this minute. Don't think about how much it's gonna hurt when your organs start to fail.
6. Stay focused on finding the cure. Ignore how badly your whole body shakes and how your head feels like it's filled with cotton wool and instead instruct Dr Kimura on what to search for. Don't admit that this is because you keep forgetting where you've already looked. Don't think about how little time you have left.
7. Don't let on how bad it is. They can hear your wracking coughs through the phone as it is, but don't tell them about how much it aches with every breath, how hard it is to stay upright, how you can taste blood at the back of your throat. There are some things that they do not need to know.
8. Send Morgan away from the decontamination shower. Not just because of the obvious stripping down which is about to occur but because you do not want this to be his last memory of you. Small and weak and shivering, skin scrubbed raw by the CDC. The small scratch on your hand is scabbing into a black lesion. Don't let Morgan see. He will know, like everybody else, that this is your death warrant signed, sealed and delivered. Don't let Morgan see you die.
9. Keep fighting. As you struggle for breath in the ambulance, think about the cure, think about the team, think about your mother. Don't think about the blood that trickles down your chin. Don’t think about the aphasia that impairs your speech, trapping you inside your own mind. Don't think about how this is your worst fear, for your body to fail but your mind be perfectly lucid inside.
10. Be thankful when you come out the other side. Blink hazily at the bright lights. Try not to cry when you realise that you're still alive. Make fun of Morgan for eating jello and relish in the fact that your mental faculties have remained intact enough for you to do so. Think about how far you've come. All the things you’ve seen and all the things you’ve done. Take a deep breath, and smile.