to go. Mrs. Doucette was my third critical admission this weekend, and I have a full day tomorrow. You ought to get some sleep, too, so you’ll be sharp for my consult. Good night, now.” She slipped on her coat and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Zack said, realizing even as he heard his own voice that the order was coming from somewhere outside his rational self—somewhere within his swirling fantasies.
“Yes?”
She turned back to him. The darkness in her eyes and the set of her face were warning him not to push matters further. He picked up on the message too late.
“I … um … I was wondering if we might have dinner or something together sometime.”
Suzanne sagged visibly. “I’m sorry,” she said wearily. “Thank you, but no.”
Zack’s fantasies stopped swirling and began floating to earth like feathers. “Oh,” he said, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to … what I mean is, it seemed like—”
“Zack, I’m sorry for being so abrupt. It’s late, and I’m bushed. I appreciate your asking me, really I do. And I’m flattered. But I … I just don’t go out with people I work with. Besides, I’m involved with someone.”
The last of the feathers touched down.
Zack shrugged. “Well, then,” he said with forced cheer, “I guess I should just hope that a lot of folks show up at this hospital with combined cardiac and neurosurgical disease, shouldn’t I?”
Suzanne reached out and shook his hand. “I’m looking forward to working with you,” she said. “I know we’ll be terrific.”
At that moment, from the far end of the emergency ward, aman began screaming, again and again, “No! I won’t go! I’m going to die. I’m going to die!”
The two of them raced toward the commotion, which centered about an old man—in his seventies, Zack guessed—whom the nurse, the emergency physician, and a uniformed security guard were trying to move from a litter to a wheelchair.
The man, with striking, long, silver hair and a gnarled full beard, was struggling to remain where hé was. Zack’s gaze took in his chino pants and flannel shirt, stained with grit, sweat, and grease, and a pair of tattered, oily work boots. The old mans left arm was bound tightly across his chest with a shoulder immobilizer; the tissues over his cheek and around his right eye were badly swollen by fresh bruises.
“No!” he bellowed again. “Don’t move me. I’m going to die if I go back there tonight. Please. Just one night.”
“What gives?” Zack asked.
The emergency physician, a rotund, former GP in town, named Wilton Marshfield, released his hold, and the old man sank back on the litter.
“Oh, hi, Iverson, Dr. Cole,” he said, nodding. “I thought you two had gone home.”
“We were about to,” said Zack. “Everything okay?”
He had known Marshfield, a marginally competent graduate of a now-nonexistent medical school, for years, and had been surprised to find him working in the emergency room. During a conversation earlier in the evening, the man had explained that Frank had talked him out of retirement until a personnel problem in the E.R. could be stabilized. “Plucked me off the scrap heap of medicine and offered me a salary as good as my best year in the office,” was how he had put it.
“Sure, sure, everything’s fine,” Marshfield said. “It’s just that ol’ Chris Gow here doesn’t understand that Ultramed-Davis is a hospital, not a bloody hotel.”
“What happened to him?” Suzanne asked.
“Nothing as serious as it looks,” Marshfield answered, with unconcealed disdain. “He just had a little too much of the hooch he brews up in that shack of his, and fell down his front steps. Fractured his upper arm near the shoulder, but there’s not a damn thing we can do for that except ice and immobilization. Films of his facial bones are all negative, and so’s the rest of his exam. Now, we’ve got an ambulance all set to cart himhome, but
“Wait,” Zack said, realizing even as he heard his own voice that the order was coming from somewhere outside his rational self—somewhere within his swirling fantasies.
“Yes?”
She turned back to him. The darkness in her eyes and the set of her face were warning him not to push matters further. He picked up on the message too late.
“I … um … I was wondering if we might have dinner or something together sometime.”
Suzanne sagged visibly. “I’m sorry,” she said wearily. “Thank you, but no.”
Zack’s fantasies stopped swirling and began floating to earth like feathers. “Oh,” he said, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to … what I mean is, it seemed like—”
“Zack, I’m sorry for being so abrupt. It’s late, and I’m bushed. I appreciate your asking me, really I do. And I’m flattered. But I … I just don’t go out with people I work with. Besides, I’m involved with someone.”
The last of the feathers touched down.
Zack shrugged. “Well, then,” he said with forced cheer, “I guess I should just hope that a lot of folks show up at this hospital with combined cardiac and neurosurgical disease, shouldn’t I?”
Suzanne reached out and shook his hand. “I’m looking forward to working with you,” she said. “I know we’ll be terrific.”
At that moment, from the far end of the emergency ward, aman began screaming, again and again, “No! I won’t go! I’m going to die. I’m going to die!”
The two of them raced toward the commotion, which centered about an old man—in his seventies, Zack guessed—whom the nurse, the emergency physician, and a uniformed security guard were trying to move from a litter to a wheelchair.
The man, with striking, long, silver hair and a gnarled full beard, was struggling to remain where hé was. Zack’s gaze took in his chino pants and flannel shirt, stained with grit, sweat, and grease, and a pair of tattered, oily work boots. The old mans left arm was bound tightly across his chest with a shoulder immobilizer; the tissues over his cheek and around his right eye were badly swollen by fresh bruises.
“No!” he bellowed again. “Don’t move me. I’m going to die if I go back there tonight. Please. Just one night.”
“What gives?” Zack asked.
The emergency physician, a rotund, former GP in town, named Wilton Marshfield, released his hold, and the old man sank back on the litter.
“Oh, hi, Iverson, Dr. Cole,” he said, nodding. “I thought you two had gone home.”
“We were about to,” said Zack. “Everything okay?”
He had known Marshfield, a marginally competent graduate of a now-nonexistent medical school, for years, and had been surprised to find him working in the emergency room. During a conversation earlier in the evening, the man had explained that Frank had talked him out of retirement until a personnel problem in the E.R. could be stabilized. “Plucked me off the scrap heap of medicine and offered me a salary as good as my best year in the office,” was how he had put it.
“Sure, sure, everything’s fine,” Marshfield said. “It’s just that ol’ Chris Gow here doesn’t understand that Ultramed-Davis is a hospital, not a bloody hotel.”
“What happened to him?” Suzanne asked.
“Nothing as serious as it looks,” Marshfield answered, with unconcealed disdain. “He just had a little too much of the hooch he brews up in that shack of his, and fell down his front steps. Fractured his upper arm near the shoulder, but there’s not a damn thing we can do for that except ice and immobilization. Films of his facial bones are all negative, and so’s the rest of his exam. Now, we’ve got an ambulance all set to cart himhome, but