The Heimlich Maneuver

There wasn’t a soul in the botanical garden at the University of Heidelberg — who would go there in such weather, anyway? It had been pouring rain since morning, sometimes letting up briefly, only to return with renewed force minutes later. Akemi splashed through the puddles in a raincoat and oversized rubber boots she had borrowed from Thomas. Just short of the area she’d been assigned to inspect, she stopped, took off her glasses, and carefully tucked them into her pocket — it was raining so hard that it was easier to go without them.

Half an hour earlier, she and Thomas had finished processing the third batch of data from Reifenberg. A notification pinged on Thomas’s screen; he glanced at it:

“They’re asking for new samples by the end of the day,” he said, standing up and heading to the coat rack.

“Wait, let me do it,” Akemi offered. “I need to get out anyway.”

“Alright,” Thomas didn’t argue. “This is the area,” he pointed at the map. “Near the old ‘Dead Grove’.”

She nodded, grabbed the plastic sample container, got dressed, and then — her boots were nowhere to be found. She looked around.

“Thomas, I’ll wear yours, just for a bit, okay?”

He shrugged indifferently, trying hard not to picture her delicate feet wading through the cavernous insides of his monster-sized mud boots.

“Here it is,” Akemi found the section, opened the container, and set it down beside her. Inside were rubber gloves, a small shovel, pruning shears, a bundle of plastic bags, and a couple of glass jars.

She was on the edge of the garden, and just a few meters ahead, a weather-faded, wind-frayed black-and-yellow tape blocked the path. “Do Not Enter – Quarantine,” it read.

Akemi cut the tape with the shears — it wasn’t needed anymore, and the “Dead Grove” was long gone.

She needed to collect new leaf samples — especially those closest to the former quarantine zone — and some soil near the roots.

“If there’s even anything left to collect…” She struggled to find a few seemingly healthy leaves and shoots, snipping them while trying not to think about the possibility that these might be the last desperate growths of dying trees. The rain had turned the ground into a wet, sticky mess, but she managed to scoop up what she could, pack it into the jars and bags, and stuff everything back into the container. The mud-stained rubber gloves followed.

“Well, that’s that,” she pulled her hood back and looked at the sky.

“I really should be out in the field more often,” Akemi had volunteered to come today instead of Thomas for just that reason, but what she saw today didn’t sit well with her.

“We sit in our lab, researching something… building projects… charts… calculations… yep. Inventing… a whole initiative even — ‘Airhole’, or whatever it’s called…” Her muttering was drowned out by the rain as she trudged back to the lab, head down, container in hand.

“What exactly are we — I mean, they — or, all of us together — supposed to invent that could possibly turn around what we’re seeing out here? A vaccine? No… A magic cure? No…”

She wanted either to punch this withering world in the gut and knock the last breath out of it — or start giving it mouth-to-mouth in a desperate bid to revive it.

Her vision blurred, not from tears but from the disconnect between neat lab calculations and the grim reality of the dying, drenched garden.

“No, it’s not just that,” she remembered her glasses, wedged the container under one arm, reached into her pocket, and put them back on. Her vision sharpened, but what lay before her still wasn’t what she wanted to see.

She sighed and opened the door.

***

The last drops of rain soaked into the ground in Hochberg, and silence followed. It was past ten o’clock, the cognac bottle nearly empty. A lull hung in the air. Reinhardt, tipsy, stared into space. Alfred got up from the table and opened the door to the garden.

“Don’t forget to close it in the morning,” Reinhardt turned toward the sound, “or the stuffiness will suck the place dry.”

“After the rain, I just want to air it out while it’s still fresh,” Alfred tossed a piece of cheese in his mouth on the way back to the table. “Back in a sec, and then one last drink.”

Reinhardt nodded. He didn’t visit Alfred often, but when he did, he always admired the lived-in chaos of the place. Crooked chairs, a sofa in the middle of the room, armchairs covered with clothes and random stuff, a dresser buried under letters, envelopes, and magazines — even the dinner table they’d just spent hours at had been piled high with schematics, printouts, and who-knows-what until Alfred swept it all aside. A coffee table near the TV, with a closed laptop and an unfinished cup of coffee. The house clearly breathed life.

Smooth brown parquet floors and dark-wood furniture, beige walls and matching ceiling, the warm glow of a lamp overhead — Reinhardt felt memory’s tide lapping at the shore of his mind…

Something crashed loudly in the distance, followed by a rasping sound. Reinhardt snapped out of it and shook his head.

“Alfred?”

A strained wheeze and thudding sounds came from the bathroom.

“Alfred?!” Reinhardt jumped up.

He peered around the corner — the bathroom door was wide open. Alfred lay facedown, clutching his throat with one hand, rasping desperately.

“Oh, for—!”

Reinhardt rushed over, grabbed him under the arms, and tried to lift him.

“Get up!”

Alfred was heavyset — Reinhardt barely managed to raise him off the floor.

“Stop grabbing your throat! Push-up position! Knees under you!”

Alfred braced himself on the floor and got onto his knees, trying to breathe. Reinhardt gripped under his arms and yanked upwards with all his strength — pain shot through his back, but it didn’t matter just for now.

“To the table!” Alfred stumbled forward, gasping and wheezing.

“Lean on your hands! Head down!”

Reinhardt wrapped both arms around Alfred from behind, gripped under the ribs, and pulled upward with force. Alfred choked and coughed.

“One more time! Don’t squirm! I might break a rib or two, but you’ll live!”

Reinhardt squeezed and heaved again. Alfred wheezed —one more thrust, then another — until a chunk of half-chewed cheese, mixed with spit and mucus, flew out onto the table. Alfred collapsed to the floor, gasping, clutching his throat, wide-eyed. Reinhardt slumped into a chair, breathing heavily.

“You okay? Say something.”

“Something,” Alfred rasped and inhaled deeply.

“You’ll live,” Reinhardt poured himself a shot and tossed it without further words.

***

Tai Ming, as usual, spent the evening in the basement. The front door slammed upstairs — Tai Yun must have returned.

“I’m home!” she called out.

“Welcome back!” Tai Ming replied.

“Zhao’s not coming tonight.”

“Staying over at that guy’s place?”

“I don’t know,” she said while taking off her shoes. “Call her if you want to know.”

“She’s not a kid anymore,” Tai Ming waved it off. “I’ll call tomorrow if she doesn’t show up.”

But there was someone else he really did want to call tonight.

Tai Ming walked over to the shelf with the lilac branch, inhaled its scent, pulled an oxygen sensor from his pocket — 99%.

Still staring at the lilac, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Sorry for the late call.”

“I’m listening,” came a tired voice. “As agreed, any time for you.”

“Minister,” Tai Ming said, “I wouldn’t bother you if I weren’t completely sure, but my source is absolutely reliable…”

“Get to the point,” Reifenberg exhaled with weary impatience.

“I’ve been observing it for several days. I have to say — it’s a completely new variety.”

“Really? Not ‘Alpha’, not ‘Beta’, not ‘Gamma’, not even…”

“Not even ‘Airhole’,” Tai Ming confirmed calmly.

“And what do you call it?” Reifenberg asked skeptically.

“I’ve decided to name it…” Tai Ming paused. “Heimlich. I’ll send the details by letter.”