hundred units of insulin gushed into Henrietta Hedgecock’s 107-pound, nondiabetic body.
Ever the nurse, Rachel preferred Apidra for these occasions. It worked faster, in her opinion, than the competing brands of insulin that required fifteen minutes to take effect. Some diabetics could inject Apidra with no delay whatsoever. They gauged their intake—like one unit for every ten carbohydrates or five units for a combo of sweet yogurt and a granola bar—and gave themselves a shot before eating.
Rachel did not calculate the carbs. She injected a hundred units of Apidra, which was a whopper shot by any standard. Hypoglycemia would start soon enough: rapid heartbeat, blurred vision, irritability, and the eventual loss of consciousness. She liked what the military called “redundant systems” in this hit. If Henrietta did not die from the diabetic coma, she would drown in the pool.
“Ouch,” shrieked Henrietta, screeching to a halt, grabbing her thigh, tears streaming from her eyes.
Palming the syringe, Rachel asked, “Are you okay?”
“What was that?”
“I’m blind as a bat without my glasses, Henrietta.”
“It felt like you pinched me. And how do you know my name?”
“I broke my fingernail,” replied Rachel in a soothing voice, not bothering to answer the question. “Come over to the side of the pool.”
They paddled to the edge, where Henrietta said, “That really hurt. Do I know you?”
“We’ve never met.”
“I feel funny.” Henrietta’s tongue already sounded two times too fat for her mouth. Her skin, once translucent from age, clouded to a sallow gray. Her brow beaded with moisture, either from the pool or the adrenal medulla secreting epinephrine in a desperate effort to check plummeting sugars. “How do you know my name?” she asked again, garbling her words.
“I’m so sorry,” soothed Rachel, concern in her words, demonic gleam in her eyes. “Walter will be disappointed when you miss lunch. But if you ask me, he’s a little young for you.”
“Listen,” Henrietta struggled to say. Now it sounded like there were two tongues in her mouth, struggling for space, bullying each other for room. “I feel funny.” She pulled out of the water, arms trembling from the effort, but all strength had quit her body. Hedgecock collapsed, just barely hanging on to the pool’s edging.
“Do you feel your heart racing?”
“Listen,” Henrietta garbled a second time, head bobbing, eyes twitching.
“Are you hungry?”
“Listen.”
“You know, Henrietta, sugar lows make people do the oddest things. I once heard about a guy who ran outside, jumped on the hood of his boss’s car, and peed all over the windshield.”
Rachel loved this part of her job. She felt like an alley cat toying with a trapped mouse.
“You won’t pee in the pool, will you?” Subconsciously, Rachel rubbed the puffy scar on her hand. “The Colony Club girls will pull the plug if they ever find out.”
“Listen,” Henrietta said for the final time. Her head dropped forward and banged hard against the pool’s edge. She slipped down, gray face forward, not reacting as water poured into her lungs.
For good measure Rachel pushed the old woman into the center of the pool. “Good night, Henrietta,” she whispered, checking that they were still alone in the cavernous room. “I may join Walter for lunch.”
As she pulled out of the pool, Rachel noticed Henrietta’s purse sitting on a nearby chair. She smiled and rifled through the contents, hoping to find a bottle of CoCo Chanel. “Ah, this is exactly what I need,” she said to no one in particular, surprised that Tasers came in pink.
Rachel rushed to the changing room. She dressed quickly, donned a raincoat, gargantuan sunglasses, and a floppy hat. She exited the building without inviting so much as a casual glance, savoring how good it felt to work in public. There was less mess to clean.
Outside in the April drizzle Rachel sighed audibly among the
Ever the nurse, Rachel preferred Apidra for these occasions. It worked faster, in her opinion, than the competing brands of insulin that required fifteen minutes to take effect. Some diabetics could inject Apidra with no delay whatsoever. They gauged their intake—like one unit for every ten carbohydrates or five units for a combo of sweet yogurt and a granola bar—and gave themselves a shot before eating.
Rachel did not calculate the carbs. She injected a hundred units of Apidra, which was a whopper shot by any standard. Hypoglycemia would start soon enough: rapid heartbeat, blurred vision, irritability, and the eventual loss of consciousness. She liked what the military called “redundant systems” in this hit. If Henrietta did not die from the diabetic coma, she would drown in the pool.
“Ouch,” shrieked Henrietta, screeching to a halt, grabbing her thigh, tears streaming from her eyes.
Palming the syringe, Rachel asked, “Are you okay?”
“What was that?”
“I’m blind as a bat without my glasses, Henrietta.”
“It felt like you pinched me. And how do you know my name?”
“I broke my fingernail,” replied Rachel in a soothing voice, not bothering to answer the question. “Come over to the side of the pool.”
They paddled to the edge, where Henrietta said, “That really hurt. Do I know you?”
“We’ve never met.”
“I feel funny.” Henrietta’s tongue already sounded two times too fat for her mouth. Her skin, once translucent from age, clouded to a sallow gray. Her brow beaded with moisture, either from the pool or the adrenal medulla secreting epinephrine in a desperate effort to check plummeting sugars. “How do you know my name?” she asked again, garbling her words.
“I’m so sorry,” soothed Rachel, concern in her words, demonic gleam in her eyes. “Walter will be disappointed when you miss lunch. But if you ask me, he’s a little young for you.”
“Listen,” Henrietta struggled to say. Now it sounded like there were two tongues in her mouth, struggling for space, bullying each other for room. “I feel funny.” She pulled out of the water, arms trembling from the effort, but all strength had quit her body. Hedgecock collapsed, just barely hanging on to the pool’s edging.
“Do you feel your heart racing?”
“Listen,” Henrietta garbled a second time, head bobbing, eyes twitching.
“Are you hungry?”
“Listen.”
“You know, Henrietta, sugar lows make people do the oddest things. I once heard about a guy who ran outside, jumped on the hood of his boss’s car, and peed all over the windshield.”
Rachel loved this part of her job. She felt like an alley cat toying with a trapped mouse.
“You won’t pee in the pool, will you?” Subconsciously, Rachel rubbed the puffy scar on her hand. “The Colony Club girls will pull the plug if they ever find out.”
“Listen,” Henrietta said for the final time. Her head dropped forward and banged hard against the pool’s edge. She slipped down, gray face forward, not reacting as water poured into her lungs.
For good measure Rachel pushed the old woman into the center of the pool. “Good night, Henrietta,” she whispered, checking that they were still alone in the cavernous room. “I may join Walter for lunch.”
As she pulled out of the pool, Rachel noticed Henrietta’s purse sitting on a nearby chair. She smiled and rifled through the contents, hoping to find a bottle of CoCo Chanel. “Ah, this is exactly what I need,” she said to no one in particular, surprised that Tasers came in pink.
Rachel rushed to the changing room. She dressed quickly, donned a raincoat, gargantuan sunglasses, and a floppy hat. She exited the building without inviting so much as a casual glance, savoring how good it felt to work in public. There was less mess to clean.
Outside in the April drizzle Rachel sighed audibly among the
Similar Books
