Inside Williams’s office, Masten and Lagner both stood in front of the desk with the doctor next to them. His giant monitor was swiveled around to face outward, while Williams used a digital pen to highlight areas of a pale blue MRI image.
“As expected, we have tissue damage here in the left kidney”—he circled a patch of darkness—“here in the liver, in the gallbladder, and some along the stomach lining. We also have some damage in the heart’s right atrium and more in the left lung.”
Williams moved from section to section before zooming out for a wider view. “Some good news is that the rest of the damage is in non-organ tissues that, like the liver, should be able to heal.”
Masten gave a grim nod. “So, what are we looking at functionally?”
“We’re not sure yet. The heart is now pumping at about forty-five percent capacity, and lungs a bit better than that. But it’s hard to know whether those levels are due to our heat damage or just the overall stress and recovery of his system.”
“You’re talking about temporary or permanent.”
“Correct.”
“And when will we know that?”
“Hard to say,” said Williams, leaning back and folding his arms before briefly raising a finger to nudge his glasses back into place. “A couple weeks, perhaps longer.” Observing the expressions on Masten and Lagner’s faces, he then added, “Keep in mind that, in retrospect, this is good news.”
“Good news?”
Williams spread his hands as he talked. “Let’s not lose perspective here. The outcome could have been far worse.”
“You sure about that?” Masten’s reply was sarcastic. “You said yourself he’s barely alive.”
It was Williams’s turn to frown. “He’s improving. Just slowly.”
Masten shot a look at Lagner. Too slowly.
It took several hours for his vision to return. Gradually, beginning with broad shadows, then patches and shapes, and finally, nondistinct but recognizable silhouettes. Which was how he was viewing Rachel Souza as she sat next to him.
The pain was returning, everywhere, as billions of cells attempted to recommunicate with one another, releasing a flood of microscopic calcium ions for signaling in a complex biological symphony. Including countless nerve cells, many screaming of severe damage throughout his nervous system, making concentration nearly impossible. All while trying in vain to operate his mouth.
For her part, Rachel remained patient after each sentence. Watching as he struggled to respond.
The blinking had been replaced by low, guttural sounds emanating from the back of the man’s throat in the form of single or double groans.
“Take your time, your throat should feel a little sore. That’s natural.”
“Natural” was an understatement. Even though the use of the oxygen tube was brief, the procedure most likely injured some of his esophageal lining. It would heal, but painfully.
The good news was that there appeared to be minimal issues with the kidneys and no buildup in the lungs that might suggest pneumonia or the need of a ventilator. Two of the most common problems with recovering coma patients.
Of course, he had not been in a coma, but the symptoms were similar.
Most importantly, his cardiovascular system now appeared stable, and his respiratory function was good, with no signs of significant infection. And there were no signs of significant muscle or organ atrophy. Which was what made it possible for her and Williams alone to handle the nursing duties. As for consciousness, his Glasgow scoring so far was at least partially responsive on all levels: optic, verbal, and motor. The question was whether he would continue to improve from these remedial levels.
She watched him quietly, her eyes sympathetic, knowing how difficult it must be for him, and only being able to guess at what he was having to endure. Trying to give support and explanations where she could for what his body was struggling through. And, of course, medication when possible.
The man’s body had become still again—resting—when Rachel was startled by a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Henry Yamada standing behind her, dressed in mask, gloves, and white lab coat.
“Masten wants to talk to us,” he whispered.
She nodded and turned back to her patient, watching his eyes glaze over beneath a set of drooping lids before she checked her watch. The latest dose should put him out for another few hours.
With that, she gently patted his arm and rose from her chair.
They arrived in the conference room to find the others waiting, as Henry and Rachel circled one end of the oval table and sat down. The only two still wearing their white lab coats.
“How is he today?”
Rachel’s answer began with a nod. “Good. Stable.”
“Sounds like he may be speaking soon.”
“Hopefully. I think his throat still has some healing to do.”
“Good to hear,” said Masten. He stared briefly across the table before taking a deep breath and exhaling. “The reason I wanted you all here … is to discuss next steps.”
Rachel glanced at Williams, but his face remained impassive. Instead, he maintained eye contact with the director.
Next steps? she thought. They already had their list of procedures and tests to carry out over the next several days. What was he—
“What we need to talk about,” continued Masten, “is our communication.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “We’re making an announcement?”
“No,” he said. “I mean internal communication.”
Rachel frowned. “I don’t—”
“Given that you two”—he gestured at her and Williams—“are our two doctors on-site, you will continue to rotate shifts with him. At least for the time being. And because of that, it’s important that we’re all on the same page, in case any of us need to step in.”
Rachel’s expression grew curious, and she glanced back and forth around the table.
“We all need to be very much in step going forward.”
Yamada raised an eyebrow. “With what exactly?”
Masten’s gaze was as firm as his tone. “With what we tell him.”