anything?” he asked quietly.
“Like what?”
“How about you? Do you . . . need anything?”
She needed him to back away and leave her the hell alone.
“Do you need some time off?” he asked.
“No, I’m . . . I’m fine.”
“Let’s take a walk,” he said, motioning down the hall.
The two of them set out awkwardly, Fiona forgetting where she was even trying to get to in the first place.
“You know,” he began, talking quietly and mysteriously, as if they were both in some secret club. “I was in the same predicament with my mother.”
She hated how he used the word “predicament,” as if her sister was Fiona’s problem, rather than the coma being her sister’s problem. Whatever. She let him continue.
“She was very sick, near the end. Very frail. She slipped into a coma for seven days. Complete vegetative state.”
That’s where she was supposed to be. Room 422D. Arthur Alphonso. Post cataract surgery. She and Dr. Wahl were walking in the opposite direction, toward the elevator. Maybe Fiona would just head straight to the break room, dive into her book, and try to recover at least some semblance of sanity.
Would the doctor follow her there, too?
“It’s such a difficult decision,” he said, staring down at his feet as he walked.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes it is.”
“She had brain activity, so it wasn’t brain death. But one has to question what that really is.”
“What, brain death?”
“No, the activity. What is that really? Is it really activity? Or perhaps just some residual energy?”
Fiona nodded, not really sure what to say.
“I play the electric guitar sometimes,” the doctor said. “And when I'm done and I turn off the amp, there’s that little die-off type sound that fades away even after the power cuts off.”
He was comparing his mother to a guitar amp?
“Do you know what I mean?” he asked. “Or maybe like an old-fashioned TV?”
“Well, she still responds to my voice. So, you know, that’s the good thing.”
“Yeah,” he said, almost sounding like it wasn’t a good thing. “Anyway, I just want to offer my condolences.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh,” he said, stopping. “Were you headed to break?”
She didn’t know. Was she? Her main priority was to break free of Dr. Wahl. She stared at the elevator as if it were a trap, asking, “Do you have something else for me to do?” There was always something.
“I’ve been told that we have a priority patient,” he said. “Room 314. Do you know anything about this?”
Priority patient? It sounded like Wendy’s warning about the undercover evaluators was coming true. But she didn’t expect their covers to be blown so early, and by the head doctor nonetheless.
“Priority in what way?” she asked, trying to sound casual about it.
“That’s what I’d like to know. I’d like it if you could keep a special watch over him.”
She might as well. After all, he’ll certainly be keeping a special watch over her . She’d have to watch the watcher, while at the same time watching her own ass even closer. What a great work environment.
“Sound good?” asked Dr. Wahl with a smile.
* * *
D r. Wahl’s priority patient was asleep when she entered Room 314. Rolled to one side, his muscular back facing her. She could tell by his frame, the solidity of his shoulders, that he was young and well built. Most likely in the prime of his life. A departure from her usual patients. She expected to see some sniveling little weasel of a man. But he was not skinny, or bald, or awake, as she’d expected. Perhaps that was part of the plot, the mask of the decoy, the unexpected appearance. He probably wasn’t even sleeping. Most likely he’d been lying there, awake and alert and surveying her actions.
She glanced at the name on his charts, Rick Delaney, which was as unfamiliar as any fake name should be. And what was wrong with Rick today? Dislocated shoulder that he’d fixed himself? That sounded
“Like what?”
“How about you? Do you . . . need anything?”
She needed him to back away and leave her the hell alone.
“Do you need some time off?” he asked.
“No, I’m . . . I’m fine.”
“Let’s take a walk,” he said, motioning down the hall.
The two of them set out awkwardly, Fiona forgetting where she was even trying to get to in the first place.
“You know,” he began, talking quietly and mysteriously, as if they were both in some secret club. “I was in the same predicament with my mother.”
She hated how he used the word “predicament,” as if her sister was Fiona’s problem, rather than the coma being her sister’s problem. Whatever. She let him continue.
“She was very sick, near the end. Very frail. She slipped into a coma for seven days. Complete vegetative state.”
That’s where she was supposed to be. Room 422D. Arthur Alphonso. Post cataract surgery. She and Dr. Wahl were walking in the opposite direction, toward the elevator. Maybe Fiona would just head straight to the break room, dive into her book, and try to recover at least some semblance of sanity.
Would the doctor follow her there, too?
“It’s such a difficult decision,” he said, staring down at his feet as he walked.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes it is.”
“She had brain activity, so it wasn’t brain death. But one has to question what that really is.”
“What, brain death?”
“No, the activity. What is that really? Is it really activity? Or perhaps just some residual energy?”
Fiona nodded, not really sure what to say.
“I play the electric guitar sometimes,” the doctor said. “And when I'm done and I turn off the amp, there’s that little die-off type sound that fades away even after the power cuts off.”
He was comparing his mother to a guitar amp?
“Do you know what I mean?” he asked. “Or maybe like an old-fashioned TV?”
“Well, she still responds to my voice. So, you know, that’s the good thing.”
“Yeah,” he said, almost sounding like it wasn’t a good thing. “Anyway, I just want to offer my condolences.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh,” he said, stopping. “Were you headed to break?”
She didn’t know. Was she? Her main priority was to break free of Dr. Wahl. She stared at the elevator as if it were a trap, asking, “Do you have something else for me to do?” There was always something.
“I’ve been told that we have a priority patient,” he said. “Room 314. Do you know anything about this?”
Priority patient? It sounded like Wendy’s warning about the undercover evaluators was coming true. But she didn’t expect their covers to be blown so early, and by the head doctor nonetheless.
“Priority in what way?” she asked, trying to sound casual about it.
“That’s what I’d like to know. I’d like it if you could keep a special watch over him.”
She might as well. After all, he’ll certainly be keeping a special watch over her . She’d have to watch the watcher, while at the same time watching her own ass even closer. What a great work environment.
“Sound good?” asked Dr. Wahl with a smile.
* * *
D r. Wahl’s priority patient was asleep when she entered Room 314. Rolled to one side, his muscular back facing her. She could tell by his frame, the solidity of his shoulders, that he was young and well built. Most likely in the prime of his life. A departure from her usual patients. She expected to see some sniveling little weasel of a man. But he was not skinny, or bald, or awake, as she’d expected. Perhaps that was part of the plot, the mask of the decoy, the unexpected appearance. He probably wasn’t even sleeping. Most likely he’d been lying there, awake and alert and surveying her actions.
She glanced at the name on his charts, Rick Delaney, which was as unfamiliar as any fake name should be. And what was wrong with Rick today? Dislocated shoulder that he’d fixed himself? That sounded
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