How did you get these wounds?”
“Just like I said. Lost my balance and fell. Yes, ma’am . . . Dr. Stathos.” Freddie Barber, a wiry sixty-four-year-old, blinked as blood trickled into his eye from one of several small, perfectly round punctures on his forehead. Exactly the same shape as the dozen or more wounds that peppered his upper chest and shoulders. He looked down at his hands. “Fell down. That’s the plain truth.” He sighed, exuding stale alcohol fumes. “Gettin’ clumsy in my old age, I guess.”
“Hmm.” Leigh glanced across the gurney at Riley. The chaplain wasn’t buying it either. And the respite Leigh had hoped for this Sunday shift wasn’t happening. In the past two days she’d dealt with Nick and Sam Gordon, then moved right on to the turmoil at the McNealys’. A roller coaster of emotion. Last night she’d been wrung out, sleepless long into the night. She wanted today to be far more routine. But most of the patients who’d streamed in since 7 a.m. had been “full moon” cases—people with needy psychological issues, complicating everything she’d tried to do. And now this guy . . .
“Maybe you want to blame this on clumsiness, Mr. Barber, but unless you fell onto a very large porcupine, I don’t see how you could end up with all of these—” she grimaced—“holes.” She tugged at the top of his patient gown, lifted his heavy link necklace aside, and noted the wounds there. She touched a gloved fingertip to his graying chest hair and exposed the deepest divot. Only a few needed sutures. “We’ll get back to your story in a few minutes. But first, when was your last tetanus shot?”
“December. Christmas Day. Hard to forget. Had myself a little accident that day, too.” Freddie smiled sheepishly, exposing gold bridgework. “So I’m good with the tetanus situation.” He took a deep breath, following Leigh’s instructions as she pressed her stethoscope to his chest. “Ah, man. That hurts like a . . .” He cursed, then bit his lip. “Sorry, ladies.”
“Another deep breath, Mr. Barber,” Leigh instructed, listening for breath sounds. Not easy with the sudden explosion of noise from the corridor: raised voices, yelling, cursing. She closed her eyes, concentrating as she pressed the disc flat against the man’s chest. A wheeze. And were those breath sounds diminished? Were there crackles? Leigh pulled her stethoscope earpieces aside as Riley tapped her arm.
“I’m sorry. But his oxygen saturation’s dropping and—” she pointed to the monitor, raising her voice over the continuing disturbance in the outer hallway—“his pulse is faster.”
Leigh frowned. Riley was right. Oxygen 93 percent on room air, heart rate 112, BP 100 over 70. Respirations faster, skin a bit pale. She’d barely begun the man’s exam, and these wounds seemed superficial, but still . . . “Mr. Barber, are you having trouble breathing?”
“Yes . . . I can’t seem . . . to get . . . my breath.” His eyes widened as medics stopped a stretcher outside his room. “Uh . . . oh. Oh, brother.”
Leigh turned, catching sight of a plump, middle-aged woman in shorts and patterned stockings lying on the transport gurney. Her wig, berry red and shiny, rode too high on her head, and the side of her face was dotted with several puncture wounds exactly like Freddie Barber’s.
The woman struggled to a sitting position on the gurney and jabbed a finger in the air, pointing into the exam room. “There you are, you lying snake! Look what she did to me. That trashy wife that you never bothered to mention!” She glared murderously and batted her hand at the paramedic trying to calm her. “No one takes a high heel to me and gets away with it. And you, you lousy . . .” The paramedics hustled the stretcher toward the next room, but the woman managed one last string of curses and a final taunt. “I hope she poked something vital with that steak knife, Freddie Barber. I hope
“Just like I said. Lost my balance and fell. Yes, ma’am . . . Dr. Stathos.” Freddie Barber, a wiry sixty-four-year-old, blinked as blood trickled into his eye from one of several small, perfectly round punctures on his forehead. Exactly the same shape as the dozen or more wounds that peppered his upper chest and shoulders. He looked down at his hands. “Fell down. That’s the plain truth.” He sighed, exuding stale alcohol fumes. “Gettin’ clumsy in my old age, I guess.”
“Hmm.” Leigh glanced across the gurney at Riley. The chaplain wasn’t buying it either. And the respite Leigh had hoped for this Sunday shift wasn’t happening. In the past two days she’d dealt with Nick and Sam Gordon, then moved right on to the turmoil at the McNealys’. A roller coaster of emotion. Last night she’d been wrung out, sleepless long into the night. She wanted today to be far more routine. But most of the patients who’d streamed in since 7 a.m. had been “full moon” cases—people with needy psychological issues, complicating everything she’d tried to do. And now this guy . . .
“Maybe you want to blame this on clumsiness, Mr. Barber, but unless you fell onto a very large porcupine, I don’t see how you could end up with all of these—” she grimaced—“holes.” She tugged at the top of his patient gown, lifted his heavy link necklace aside, and noted the wounds there. She touched a gloved fingertip to his graying chest hair and exposed the deepest divot. Only a few needed sutures. “We’ll get back to your story in a few minutes. But first, when was your last tetanus shot?”
“December. Christmas Day. Hard to forget. Had myself a little accident that day, too.” Freddie smiled sheepishly, exposing gold bridgework. “So I’m good with the tetanus situation.” He took a deep breath, following Leigh’s instructions as she pressed her stethoscope to his chest. “Ah, man. That hurts like a . . .” He cursed, then bit his lip. “Sorry, ladies.”
“Another deep breath, Mr. Barber,” Leigh instructed, listening for breath sounds. Not easy with the sudden explosion of noise from the corridor: raised voices, yelling, cursing. She closed her eyes, concentrating as she pressed the disc flat against the man’s chest. A wheeze. And were those breath sounds diminished? Were there crackles? Leigh pulled her stethoscope earpieces aside as Riley tapped her arm.
“I’m sorry. But his oxygen saturation’s dropping and—” she pointed to the monitor, raising her voice over the continuing disturbance in the outer hallway—“his pulse is faster.”
Leigh frowned. Riley was right. Oxygen 93 percent on room air, heart rate 112, BP 100 over 70. Respirations faster, skin a bit pale. She’d barely begun the man’s exam, and these wounds seemed superficial, but still . . . “Mr. Barber, are you having trouble breathing?”
“Yes . . . I can’t seem . . . to get . . . my breath.” His eyes widened as medics stopped a stretcher outside his room. “Uh . . . oh. Oh, brother.”
Leigh turned, catching sight of a plump, middle-aged woman in shorts and patterned stockings lying on the transport gurney. Her wig, berry red and shiny, rode too high on her head, and the side of her face was dotted with several puncture wounds exactly like Freddie Barber’s.
The woman struggled to a sitting position on the gurney and jabbed a finger in the air, pointing into the exam room. “There you are, you lying snake! Look what she did to me. That trashy wife that you never bothered to mention!” She glared murderously and batted her hand at the paramedic trying to calm her. “No one takes a high heel to me and gets away with it. And you, you lousy . . .” The paramedics hustled the stretcher toward the next room, but the woman managed one last string of curses and a final taunt. “I hope she poked something vital with that steak knife, Freddie Barber. I hope
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