Chapter forty-four

Six o’clock. Sam stared at the clock, not quite recognizing what it was. Six-oh-one. A faint sound of voices drifted by. Sam focused on the solid door through which they came. Mauve curtains hung on a track just inside the door.

Six-oh-two. Sam’s head hurt, his leg throbbed, and every part of his body ached as if he’d been run over by a car.

The voices grew louder, and one, attached to a tall man dressed in a white coat, came through the door. His well-trimmed red mustache reminded Sam of Rhett Butler.

“Welcome back!” Rhett said, looking over a chart. “We weren’t so sure you’d be joining us today. How are we feeling?”

“Like we shouldn’t be here. Where is here?” Sam looked at the clock again. Six-oh-four.

“Dosher Hospital. Dr. Henderson at your service,” the gentle doctor said, offering a short bow and a generous smile. “You lost a lot of blood. We’ve got a nice cocktail for you to relieve some of the pain so you can rest this morning.”

A nurse moved behind Dr. Henderson like his shadow. She pumped the contents of a syringe into a tube streaming from Sam’s arm, then changed an IV bag attached to a tube running into the same blue plastic tip sticking out from the back of his wrist.

Six-oh-six.

“Rest,” soothed Dr. Henderson. “You’ll be out of here soon.”

Just as efficiently as he’d come in, Dr. Henderson left the room.

The nurse finished her required fussing about, and a technician exchanged places with her to take Sam’s temperature and blood pressure. They were efficient in their leaving, too.

Six-oh-nine.

“No need to mince words when actions suffice,” thought Sam.

Taking in the wallpaper border dominated by shrimping boats, Sam clawed his way to a memory of what happened the night before. He pressed the nurse-call button on the bed railing, and an efficient but pleasant voice drifted through the speaker. Efficiency must be part of the job description.

“How can I help you?”

“Is Chuck Owens a patient here?”

“One minute. I’ll check.”

Silence.

“Yes. He’s in ICU.”

“I need to speak with him.”

“Not today, sir. He’s in critical condition.”

“How is he?”

“I’m not permitted to say, other than telling you his status is critical.”

“Thanks.”

Sam watched the sun’s filtered rays dance on the wall nearest the clock. Six-fifteen. His head felt heavy again, almost dizzy. Then Sam slipped into healing sleep once again.

Six-sixteen.