A Fishy End

Chapter 41

"Four a.m. is always the witching hour, in my book," Michael Crighton said, shaking his head to try to stay awake. "God, why did I agree to a night shift?"

Dr. Melissa West chuckled. "So you could become my personal counselor, apparently. Another cup?" She reached for the Styrofoam cup in front of him.

"Normally I would say no," he said, "but I fear I need it tonight." To a nearby nurse, Kara, he asked, "Is it always this quiet on nights?"

"Hush," she scolded. "Nurses don't use that word. Bad luck."

"What? 'Quiet'? Just saying it doesn't ruin it. Nurses and doctors are some of the most superstitious people," Dr. West scoffed, as she stood by the coffeepot and poured. "Cream and sugar for me, black as a demon's heart for Michael."

"Nights are feast or famine," Kara said. "Some nights are like this. Others, we run from dusk to dawn. And I don't care if it's just a superstition. If people start pouring through that door." She gestured toward the front of the ER. "I am holding you personally responsible."

"I'd welcome it," Michael said. "Just to stay awake." Melissa set the coffee in front of him. Dr. West, he corrected himself. "Doctors are allowed to lie down," he added.

"I might. But it's been good to talk, catch up."

It had been good to catch up. It was dangerous too. If Jessica knew he'd been talking to Melissa West, she'd have a cow. She was still convinced that Melissa was the same conniving woman she'd been in her twenties. She wasn't—she had grown, matured. She'd even apologised for the crap she had put Michael through when they dated.

And she needed someone to talk to. Her divorce had been hard. She'd had a nervous breakdown; the stress had been that bad. A lot of it was complicated, and Michael already knew enough of her history to make sense of it, unlike anyone else. It made sense that she would want to talk, and that he would listen.

"CPR in progress," the secretary yelled into the nurses' station. "ETA five minutes."

They all jumped to their feet. The nurse shot Michael an "I told you so" look.

"Prep trauma room one," Dr. West shouted. The triage nurse came through the door with a walkie-talkie in her hands. "What do we know?" the doctor asked her.

"Found unresponsive, face down in a pool," she said. "Unknown how long."

Michael's cellphone beeped. He almost didn't answer, but the ringtone was James, the EMT. He was on service tonight, likely on that ambulance. "Yes?" he said into the phone as he rushed to the trauma room.

"Don't get too excited," James said. "Our boy's DRT. Some drunk. Passed out in a kiddy pool. No chance."

Michael shoved the phone in his pocket. Dr. West and the triage nurse came bustling in. "James says our guy is DRT."

The triage nurse heaved a big sigh and leaned back against the counter. "He is?"

"What's DRT?" Dr. West asked.

"DRT?" Kara said as she came in. "Crap."

"Dead Right There," Michael said. "It's a crude joke, I guess. An informal code we came up with some years back. It means he's been down long enough the EMTs know he can't be revived. But they aren't allowed to declare a body dead, so they gotta bring him, CPR in progress."

"So the EMT doesn't think he can be brought back?" Dr. West snapped. "When he goes to medical school he can make that decision. Until then, we are going to try to bring that man back until I say otherwise."

"Yes, ma'am," Kara snapped, pulling herself erect.

Anger flared in Michael. James had been an EMT for years. It was just like Melissa to think a "mere" EMT couldn't tell when someone was truly dead.