Heroic Measures by Jill Ciment Read Free Book Online Page B

nurse begins banging the creature’s lifeless ribs with his fist. “Get Doctor Griffon, fast,” he shouts to another nurse, a female, who is trying to calm the other restless dogs stacked in cages.
    Despite the liquid tranquility dripping into Dorothy’s neck from the plastic cloud overhead, she is nervous, too. She knows the male nurse isn’t going to rouse the Chihuahua, no matter how hard he beats it, and that the female nurse isn’t going to convince the other caged animals that Death isn’t in the room.
    Dorothy is not staying here. She looks for a way out. If she can just get her front claws under a wire or two, she might be able to loosen them and squeeze through. But her claws never catch a wire. Her nails barely scratch the surface. She is so weakened by pain and paralysis that all she manages is to feebly swat at the bars, like an old cat.
    “Where do you think you’re going, little mama?”
    Dorothy freezes. She doesn’t whimper. She doesn’t raise her eyes to see who or what is speaking. She keeps her head down, her posture small and submissive. If she doesn’t look up, maybe Death will forget about her and choose another?
    Death unlatches her cage and reaches for
her
this time. Dorothy bares her little yellow teeth at Death. When he doesn’t take her seriously, she snaps at him.
    “I’m not going to hurt you,” Death says. His mustachioed face fills her open cage door as he reads the plastic hospital tag around her neck. “I bet they call you Dottie, don’t they mama?”
    Death knows her name.
    She snarls again and Death quickly steps back this time. Dorothy doesn’t let down her guard though. She’s seen birds fly into windows, a rat die of poison, the remains of a deer on the parkway. Dorothy suspects she isn’t going to stave off Death with a mere show of teeth.
    Death returns with a muzzle. He will win any contest of strength. She changes her strategy. When he tries to muzzle her, she licks his fingers.
    “Okay, mama, you don’t have to wear it.”
    He slips a surprisingly warm hand under her and carries her and the liquid cloud out of the cage. He holds her tight and high against his chest, like she is his own baby. From that angle, Dorothy sees the Chihuahua still being pummeled by a fist. Death ferries Dorothy down a long, brightly lit corridor into a small, dark room with a huge machine. Death’s assistant, a female nurse, is waiting for them.
    “How’s the Chihuahua doing?” she asks.
    “Don’t ask,” Death says. He strokes Dorothy’s head; she’s trembling. “You want me to shave her?”
    “Let her relax a minute.” She takes Dorothy from him. “You allergic to anything, precious?” she asks before reading Dorothy’s chart. “Strawberries! Coconuts!”
    “No more piña coladas for you, little mama,” Death says.
    Another of his assistants, a female anesthesiologist, peers around the door. “Are we ready?”
    “The radiologist isn’t in yet,” the nurse says.
    “Prep her. I’ll be right back.”
    The nurse hands Dorothy back to Death, takes out a silver tray, and begins to set out bottles and cotton balls and what look, to Dorothy, like knives and forks and spoons.
    The anesthesiologist shoulders open the door without using her hands this time and the nurse helps her put on rubber gloves. The rubber gloves reach for Dorothy. “What’s your name?” she asks.
    “Dorothy,” Death says.
    “Dorothy, you’re going to feel very sleepy in a minute.” She lays Dorothy on a table while Death prepares a syringe. “Start with twenty ccs. Let’s see how she does.”
    Death injects the plastic tube connecting Dorothy to the cloud, and tranquility saturates her. She sinks and rises at the same time. One minute the cloud is above her, the next below her.
    “It’s almost seven-fifteen for God’s sake. Find out where the hell Doctor Whitehead is,” the anesthesiologist tells the nurse.
    “I’m right here,” a man says, pushing open the door while