My Perfect Day

Hour One

“If I kiss you, will you turn back into a frog and croak?”

My mouth opens, but I immediately realize that I’ve completely forgotten what I was about to ask Dr. Cox. How does he always manage to do this to me? My brows furrow as he squeezes his eyes shut and puckers his lips. Surely he doesn’t really…? I glance around and find that everyone at the nurses’ station is conspicuously looking away from us. Traitors. Only the janitor watches from where he’s mopping in front of the elevators. That he doesn’t look away makes me all the more uncomfortable. I think I see the corners of his mouth turning slightly up as he plays witness to my mild distress.

I look back at Dr. Cox, hoping that my eyes aren’t as wide as I think they might be. “I’m not…I…” I stammer s bit incoherently, stopping as I find myself suddenly imaging what it would be like to just do it. I’m not gay or anything, but I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to just close my eyes, lean in and--

“Dear, God, you’re actually thinking about it,” he accuses me, and I open my eyes to find him glaring at me, red-faced with rage. At least I hadn’t actually leaned in, had I? I mean I have had kind of a dry spell lately, but I’m not that desperate. Then again…

I don’t have time to consider because Cox lets out an aggravated snort of disgust and turns back to the chart he’d been examining before I interrupted him. I obviously didn’t deny it fast enough.

“No! I--" I shake my head in protest. The movement reminds me exactly why I was looking for him in the first place as nausea hits full force. Whoa. “Dr. Cox?”

“Spit it out, Darla,” he demands even as he begins walking away before I get a chance to speak. My stomach lurches as I push away from the counter to shuffle after him.

“Dr. Dorian!” someone--I think it may be one of the new interns, but I’m not sure--calls out from behind me. I hesitate for a moment. If I stop to find out what they want, Cox will disappear again and I won’t get a chance to ask if he can check in on a couple of my patients for me so I can go home a little early and try to sleep off the stomach bug that’s been getting progressively worse all morning. I only have four hours left on my 36-hour rotation, but I really shouldn’t be seeing patients while I’m not feeling well.

With that in mind, I pretend I don’t hear the intern. I feel a little guilty, but I’m sure it wasn’t that important.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Brown, but we were unable to save your husband. If only we’d been able to catch Dr. Dorian, we might’ve been able to diagnosed that ruptured spleen in time--”

Eeks.

I shake off that thought and duck into the room where Dr. Cox is tending to his patient. I automatically move to the bedside to assist, forgetting for the moment that I shouldn’t expose patients to my possible illness. I notice that the patient--I glance at his chart over Cox’s shoulder--Mr. Dahmer (Gyaah! Look again, look again! Okay, first name is Gabriel, not Jeffrey. Not that it matters; Jeffrey Dahmer is dead and he is not an imposter patient who has come here to eat me…) has pulled the bandage holding his IV in place loose. I reach down to double-check that the needle is still in place before I rewrap it. I barely contain a small squeal as suddenly an ice cold hand grasps my wrist. Gabriel. His name is Gabriel.

I wonder if he’s a relation…?

“Well aren’t you the pretty one,” Mr. Dahmer rasps in a low, intimidating sounding voice that doesn’t really fit his words. Instinctively I try to pull my arm away, but he holds tight. “That shirt brings out the blue in your eyes,” he threatens, or at least sounds like he’s threatening. The guy is more than a little creepy; he makes my skin crawl and my stomach get all gurgly. Although, now that I think about it, the latter could very well be the flu bug.

Either way, I can’t really think of how to respond.

“I always thought it made my eyes look slightly green,” is what pops out of my mouth. My mentor gives me a very strange look before returning his attention to Dahmer’s medical chart.

Dahmer releases my wrist, but a moment later he has my chin gripped in his hand and pulls my face closer to his. “No. Definitely blue,” the patient accuses. “They sparkle,” he adds in a terrifying sneer.

I’m not sure, but I think the squeaky noise that fills the room may actually have come from me.

“Time out! We can call that, right?” Cox cuts in as he reaches out and taps Dahmer’s hand until he lets go of me enough that I can scramble backward, trip over my own feet and wind up looking straight up at my mentor as he steps over me on his way out the door.

I bounce back to my feet. Ooh head rush. And a little touch of queasy. I start to follow after Cox when I remember that Dahmer’s IV is loose. I should really fix that. I turn back to him, but jump backward as he reaches out to grab hold of me again.

“Do you ever feel like you just haven’t got the common sense that everyone else was born with?” Dr. Cox calls as he reappears in the doorway. I do feel that sometimes. How did he know? I see his jaw clench and unclench a couple times and he gets that impatient look again. “Are you coming, Newbie?” Right. We can send one of the interns in to fix the IV. Perhaps the one that was looking for me earlier.

Maybe I’ll see if Cox could find him. I’m really not feeling so good. Maybe I should have just stayed on the floor when I fell earlier.

“Now, did you have something you a-hac-tually wanted to ask, or are you planning on following me all day?” Dr. Cox asks as I trail after him. “Because you know I’ve always wanted my very own puppy to follow me around all day long. Can you do any tricks? We’ve already established that you’re not quite familiar with ‘heel’, but maybe we can teach you to ‘sit and stay’. Or better yet roll over and play dead?” Cuz I’m a puppy. Heh.
When I don’t answer, he just looks at me, the vein in his forehead visibly throbbing.

I open my mouth to answer, but suddenly I’m not just feeling sick. I am sick.

All over Dr. Cox’s shoes.

And just a little tiny bit on his pants.

Oh…God. I am so dead. Cox will probably revive me just so that I can die again. And then he’ll revive me so that he can murder me. I hope those weren’t really expensive shoes. And that he hasn’t recently polished them because I suspect in a matter of moments I will probably be having them shoved down my throat.

I’m going to be sick again.

It’s probably for the best that I didn’t stick around to hear (or feel) Cox’s reaction but instead made a mad dash for the locker room to pray to the porcelain god within.

The entire time I’m in the stall, I keep imagining Cox standing just outside taunting me, making snide comments about being bulimic and it doing wonders for my girlish figure. As it turns out, he is waiting for me, but he doesn’t even look angry. Instead, he has retrieved my backpack and is reading through a medical chart that I recognize as being for one of my patients.

“Go home and rest, Newbie,” he orders as he presses my pack into my hands. I smile weakly and turn to go. He cares! “After all you’ll be working the next six weekends to pay to replace these shoes!” he calls after me. Aw, he doesn’t fool me.

As I approach the elevator, I notice that the janitor is still there, mopping in the same spot he was before. I raise an eyebrow and take another look at him. He sees me eyeing him and raises his own eyebrows in challenge. I start to look away, but not before noticing the roll of duct tape that is dangling around his wrist.

I think maybe I’ll take the stairs.

I immediately change directions and turn toward the stairwell. Behind me I hear the janitor’s voice calling out, “What? Do you think I’d tape you to the side of the elevator and leave you there for six hours or something?”

Oh no, not at all.

I’m guessing more like eight or nine.

I push open the stairwell door. I can’t wait to get home and just crawl into bed. I smile as I imagine burrowing down under the covers and pulling them up under my chin. Perhaps I’ll even drag the television into my bedroom and watch a few stories while I drift off to sleep. How could a day be any less perfect than that? Of course it would be a lot better if I didn’t also have to cuddle up with the large metal vomit bowl.

Unfortunately it seems I’m going to have to wait just a little bit longer. I yelp as something grabs me from behind and I suddenly find myself flung hard against the wall. A moment later I felt cold metal against my throat. A gun. Good god there’s a gun pressing into my Adam’s apple. My hands tighten on my pack but I can’t otherwise seem to make myself move. I can barely even make myself breathe.

Actually if I’m completely honest, I can’t make myself breathe, either. It’s probably for the best because I think if I could it would probably trigger the next wave of vomiting.

“So, tell us, Dr. Dorian: How did you manage to capture the notorious psycho killer?” an absolutely stunning news reporter asks as she shoves a microphone in my face. I blink as hundreds of cameras flash in my face.

“Well you see, Jill,” I begin to explain, and it all flashes back in my mind.

I vomit on the attacker’s shoes. He immediately backs up a step, a horrified expression on his face. He’s too close to the edge of the stairs and he begins to topple. His arms swing wide, the gun flying out of his hands. I deftly leap up and catch it, pointing it back at my attacker in one fluid movement. He grabs onto my pack in a desperate attempt to keep himself from falling down the stairs.

“Don’t let go!” he growls, though his eyes are wide and frightened.

I let him sweat it out a few moments longer. Long enough that when I pull him back to safety, he is so grateful that he immediately surrenders, pouring out a long list of other offenses that he should promptly be arrested for. And he’ll make sure I get all the credit.

Jill looks at me with intense admiration. She tosses the microphone away, grabs me, swings me around into a ‘dip’ and leans in to give me a great big kiss.

“I said, let go!”

I snap back into reality to find that I’m no longer against the wall, but am barely balanced at the edge of the top stair. The only thing that is keeping me from going over the side is the fact that my hand is literally frozen to my pack. He wants me to let go, but I can’t make myself.

My mouth opens, but I can’t make a sound. I want to tell him that as soon as my feet are on solid ground he can have my pack. I honestly can’t even remember what all is in it at the moment other than a dirty set of scrubs and quite probably my wallet. But there’s nothing in it worth getting pushed down the stairs for. I’m pretty sure of that. Sure, it’d be nice not to have to replace my wallet, but--

I see something flash and realize what it is a split second before the gun smashes into my temple. Instinctively my hands fly up to protect my head from another blow. Unfortunately my balance was precarious at best and now without the benefit of my death-grip on my pack, there’s nothing to keep me from toppling over. I flail my arms, but my hands fail to make purchase and I’m in freefall.

This is so going to hurt. So much for my perfect day.

Hour 2.5: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bathroom

I’m pretty sure I blacked out for at least a few moments because I don’t remember actually landing. I should probably be thankful about that because I think that it probably wouldn’t really be a good memory to have ingrained in my head. As it is, I’m lying flat on my back on a cold hard surface and my head is throbbing in exciting and strange places but otherwise I don’t feel any particular pain. For a brief moment I’m terrified that maybe I don’t feel pain because I’m paralyzed or something. A quick mental inventory of my extremities tells me that everything is still working, though. No broken neck, no broken back. I don’t think there are any broken bones at all. Which means that it’s safe to move.

Unless…what if the guy who attacked me is still here? Maybe he’s waiting for me to open my eyes because he doesn’t like torturing people without getting a reaction. I swallow fearfully. He could be standing over me right now, waiting to chop me up into tiny little pieces because he didn’t find anything in my backpack that was to his liking.

Come to think of it, though, I think I’d probably be even more disturbed if my dirty scrubs were to his liking. I picture a grungy guy sitting in a dank apartment clutching my shirt in his grubby little hands and sniffing it in deep inhaling whiffs. Yeah. That’s definitely more disturbing. I shudder.

I’m sure he’s long gone and I’m lying at the bottom of the stairwell all safe and sound. I can feel my body trembling slightly; telling myself that I’m safe isn’t working. Guess I’ll have to open my eyes and find out for sure.

“Gyaaaah!!” I scream as I find myself looking up at Dr. Doug Murphy hovering over me with a scalpel in his hand.

“Gyaaaaah!!!” he screams right back at me as he leaps backward, sending his implements of torture tray and himself sprawling. I leap off the autopsy table to scurry in the opposite direction, but am stopped as my earlier nausea is joined by an intense wave of dizziness. My legs won’t hold and I find myself sprawled on the floor again. I gulp as I see a pair of hiking boots appear in front of my face.

“I told you we should have used the tape,” I hear the janitor chide Doug. I feel his hands grip me under the arms and hoist me back up onto the table. Tape? I blink as my mind flashes back to earlier when I saw him by the elevators. Duct tape. The janitor wanted to tape me to the elevator wall, and now apparently wants to tape me to an autopsy table. I inch back on the table. “So you don’t fall off and hurt yourself again,” the janitor adds, looking at me with an expression that fairly convincingly mimics concern. If I didn’t know any better I would probably mistaken it as such. But he won’t fool me. “Found you in the stairwell,” he explains. “You should have taken the elevator.”

I so don’t think so. I shake my head and immediately regret it as the dizziness returns and my stomach roils. I reach up and tentatively touch my temple where the gun hit me. It feels slightly wet and quite sticky. Further exploration reveals that there’s also a pretty nasty knot on the back of my head. Great; I probably have a concussion.

“Are you okay?” Murphy asks.

When I don’t immediately answer, the janitor queries, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

I glance at him to find that he’s holding up not only his own hands, but also that of the corpse that is splayed out on the adjacent table. “Thirteen,” I answer at the same time as Doug. The janitor looks rather disappointed, but Doug beams that he’s answered correctly. I shake my head. Once again, big mistake. Will I never learn? To answer my own question I shake my head again. Damn it!

And now the room is spinning. I lay back on the table and close my eyes, hoping it will stop before I get sick again.

“Corpse-five!” I hear the sound of flesh hitting corpse and cringe inwardly. Why is the Todd down in the morgue? Then again, I probably don’t want to know. I swear the guy has some sort of internal homing device that hones in on any given opportunity to slap a raised hand.

“You were supposed to go home before resting, Gretchen,” Cox gripes and I become aware that he’s suddenly standing over me. When did he get here? Did I fall asleep or something? I wince as fingers pry my left eyelid open and a bright light blinds me momentarily before the same thing happens to my right. “Pupils equal and reactive. Good boy.” Am I still a puppy? “No, you’re not a puppy.” Oops, I must have said that out loud. “No, Newbie, you didn’t say it out loud, I just know you better than I ever wanted. In fact, I would venture that I know more than any sane person could ever possibly want now or anytime in the future including any future wife or any of the incredibly annoying little Dorian children you may somehow convince someone to pop out could ever want to know. Now, tell me, how did you manage to do this?” For once the question sounds sincere and not just a setup for some sort of punch line. I wince as his fingers lightly probe my temple.

“He fell down the stairs,” the janitor informs him. “I found him and brought him here.”

“You didn’t think--and I know that is a great challenge to you with that oh-so-underused-that-it-has-actually-become-rusted-out-like-an-old-saw-blade-that’s-been-left-out-in-the-rain-wa-hon-too-many-times noggin of yours--to maybe take him…I don’t know…to an a-hac-tual doctor?” Doug’s a doctor…though honestly with his mortality rate, I’d prefer he not ever treat me. “Up, up Newbie.” And awaaaaaaaaay! Judging from the look that Cox gives me as he stops helping me sit up, I’m guessing I did say that out loud. Either that or he really does know me. I flash him a small innocent grin that only makes him look more disgusted. Still, he doesn’t take his duties lightly. “Well, I don’t think we’ll need any sutures. Did you get any other ‘owies’ when you fell?”

“Knot on the back of my head,” I inform him.

Cox looks at me strangely. “What…did you *bounce*?”

Did I? I look up a little and start to consider.

I start to fall, hit a stair and bounce 15 feet in the air, do a flip, hit a few steps down only to fly up and do triple flip before landing at the bottom. Carla, Turk, and Elliot all hold up score cards. Only a 6.5?? I’ve been robbed!

Wait, I was robbed; I should probably tell them that. The guy could still be somewhere in the hospital and since he really didn’t get anything of interest (don’t think about him sniffing your scrubs don’t think of him sniffing your scrubs) from me, he could well try to get something from someone else. Oh, but note to self, when you build your own house make a set of trampoline stairs.

“No. Back of the head is from the fall; this is from the gun.”

“…Gun, Newbie?”

“Yeah. Guy hit me, took my backpack, and shoved me down the stairs.”

My words set into motion a flurry of events that finds me mere minutes later lying in one of the hospital’s luxury suites.

“I really don’t think I need to be admitted,” I protest, though I have to admit that it does feel really nice as one of the nurses pats my forehead lightly with a wet cloth while a second holds a glass of nice cool water for me to sip from, and a third fluffs my pillow for me.

Actually I take it back. The person fluffing my pillow isn’t actually a nurse. My eyes widen as I discover it’s actually Dr. Kelso. “Only the best treatment for my best doctor!” he assures me and pats me on the shoulder. What the…? Wait. I’m his best doctor? That’s all kinds of awesome!

“Vanilla bear?” I hear Turk call for me as he peers into the room. He has a surgical suture tray with him.

“Only the finest surgeon to make sure you don’t get a scar,” Kelso assures me as he waves Turk in.

“You really think so?” Turk asks. Though Kelso doesn’t answer, it’s clear what the answer is. I raise my fist to give him a congratulatory bump.

“Dear, God,” I hear Dr. Cox from his spot in the doorway.

“I took the liberty to have Ted get you replacements for all of your things,” Dr. Kelso informs me as Turk starts assessing my wound. Ted wipes sweat from his brow and it’s clear that he’s been running around to collect the items. He hands me a brand new backpack (Oh, cool, it’s Scooby Doo!) along with a new set of scrubs. “Ted will go ahead and take the security report down to the police department.”

“But I was going to--" Ted starts to protest, but then stops, “who am I kidding, I was just going to go home and watch Antique Roadhouse…”

Turk and I exchange glances, but say nothing about his choice of programming. Why would anyone watch that when they can watch reruns of Diff’rent Strokes?! Turk nods in total agreement without me even having to say it. He then returns his attention to my temple.

“Well, congratulations. It looks like you don’t need any stitches,” he informs me and starts to turn away.

“Stitch it!” Kelso snaps, then turns back to me with a big smile and another shoulder pat. Why is he being so nice to me? It’s actually borderline creepy.

“I really don’t need…” I start to protest again.

“Just want to make sure you’re all taken care of.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake, he’s not going to sue,” Dr. Cox announces with a pained voice.

Kelso looks expectantly at me for confirmation.

“Of course I’m not--"

He presses a document and a pen into my hands and motions for me to sign it. The moment I do so, his smile is gone. “You’re okay. It’s just a little concussion. We need this bed for actual patients. Now get out.” He whisks out of the room with Ted in tow.

I sigh as I throw back the covers and get out of the bed. Turk reaches out to steady me as I nearly topple over. “I’ve got a surgery, but I know Carla’s off in a few minutes. Hang out for a few and I’m sure she’ll get you home.”

“Nah. I’m okay. I’ll just take Sasha--"

“No driving. I won’t have you get into an accident after we release you,” Kelso scolds as he returns to the room. What did he want now? “Ted,” he looks to his lackey.

Ted looks at me with a defeated and apologetic look on his face.

I sigh and hand back the scrubs and backpack. Easy come, easy go. I watch as Ted shuffles after Kelso. So long Scooby Doo…

“So, I’ll just call Carla and make sure it’s okay.” Turk whips out his cell and makes what I call the “callin’ my baby” look.

“He probably shouldn’t be alone for at least a few hours,” Cox informs him, looking bored and disinterested despite his obvious concern. I grin knowingly at him, but he just snorts and takes his leave.

“Carla’ll pick you up right out front, and she’ll stay with you until I can get there,” Turk reports as he hangs up his phone. “You want a ride?” he asks, grinning as he motions toward the wheelchair that one of the nurses has left for me.

I plop down in the chair and look up at him expectedly.

“Um…JD? Where are your shoes, dude?”

I look down and discover that, indeed, my shoes appear to be missing. Damn it! I liked those sneakers. Turk lets out a small amused chuckle and pats my arm (what is it with people doing that today?). “Hang on!” I grip the armrests as Turk pushes off, racing me down the hall at top speed. Wheeeee!

I start to regret the decision to let Turk do the driving about the time that we take the first turn around the nurses’ station. My stomach lurches, reminding me that I really should be taking it easy. Maybe I should have waited to sign Kelso’s form until after I’d slept off my flu in the luxury suite.

I tense as we approach the elevator but Turk doesn’t slow down. In fact he speeds up. This is going to hurt. We’re going to crash in 3…2…1—DING! The elevator door opens at just the right moment; Turk stops running, letting us skid into the elevator where he spins us around to face the exit. It’s quite possibly a miracle that I manage not to vomit. As it is, my head starts spinning again.

“For chrissakes, Ghandi, the kid has a concussion. Go easy on him!” Cox growls at my best friend. See, he cares!

The last thing I notice as the elevator door closes is that Dr. Cox appears to be wearing my sneakers. I frown as he flashes me a big grin and is waving as the door slides shut. It’s only fair, I suppose. After all I did throw up on his.

I’m pretty much ready to throw up again by the time Turk is loading me into the car. “You sure you should be going? Cox’d probably let you take a bed for a few hours,” he says.

“I don’t think it’s from the concussion. It’s just some stomach bug; I was getting sick earlier.” Turk doesn’t look any happier. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to throw up in the car,” I assure him.

He nods seriously. “Good, cuz I so don’t want to clean that up.” He shuts up at Carla’s glare.

“Poor Bambi,” Carla coos at me as she reaches over and pulls on my seat belt. She waves at Turk until he turns to go back into the hospital. “You will, of course, tell me if you think you’re going to throw up, right?” she asks in a voice that is deceptively sweet, though underlying that I know is at least a small promise of death if I don’t comply. I nod seriously and she smiles, her nose crinkling just a little bit.

We’re only a few blocks away from the hospital when it hits me with sheer certainty. “Carla?”

“Yes, Bambi?” she asks as she looks over her shoulder, trying to merge with traffic.

“We’ve got a code green,” I blurt out.

The car tires screech as she weaves back out of traffic, across a busy intersection, spins a donut, and lands perfectly in a parking spot in front of the Stop-N-Shop. “Go!” she urges. “I’ll get you something to help settle your tummy,” she adds as she gets out of the car after me.

I rush to the back of the store, making it to the restroom just in time to not cause an incredibly embarrassing scene. My stomach empties, but it really doesn’t make me feel any better. I try not to think about how disgusting the restroom floor probably really is as I rest my head against the cool tiles. It feels better than it should, considering how long it has probably been since it was last cleaned.

Ew. Okay, really don’t want to think about that. I push myself up off the floor and stumble over to the sink to clean up. I feel so weak I’m starting to wonder if I really shouldn’t have stayed back at the hospital. At least it’ll only be a few more minutes before I’m home and can curl up in bed with my trusty vomit bowl.

I start to push open the bathroom door but something instinctively makes me stop. I’m not sure for a second why. I don’t think I’m going to get sick again just yet…

“Everybody, on the floor!” a threatening voice yells out and a moment later a shot rings out from the front of the store.

On second thought, guess it’s Code Green time, again.

It’s a good thing I’m not wearing shoes, or I’d have just ruined a second pair.

I think my heart skips several beats as I see Carla slowly dropping to her knees with her hands raised. There’s a gun pointed directly at her. The gunman waves the clerk and the store manager out from behind the counter and they quickly join Carla. I don’t think there’s anyone else in the store.

I’m frozen in place, though I know I need to do something. What, though? Think, JD, think! Except all I can think is that I really need to pee. It’s probably just my fear reflex, but maybe it’ll buy me some time, anyway.

I carefully back into the bathroom, hoping that the gunman doesn’t have any idea I’m here. Just in case, I move into one of the stalls and lock the door. Okay, so it’s the first place someone would look and it’s not like they couldn’t shoot through the door or something, but it’s better than just standing out in the open. Besides, I just need time to think. And to pee.

Unfortunately, by the time I’ve relieved myself, I’m no closer to coming up with a plan.

Maybe I should just stay right where I am. That’d be the safest thing to do. The gunman will probably be gone in just a couple minutes, anyway. So I should just stay here.

Except that Carla is out there and I can’t just leave her there alone! Not that I’d be all that great at protecting her, I suppose. Truth be told, when she gets mad or upset she’s scary and--as has been pointed out to me time and again--I’m just not. If I go out there, she’ll probably end up protecting me. Still, I know she has got to be as scared as I am. Probably more so since she’s the one with a gun in her face. At the very least, I should be there with her. I know I shouldn’t go and play hero or anything; I’m hardly hero material. But I still can’t help but feel like I should be doing something.

Okay, so…what should I do? I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to collect my thoughts and organize them into something coherent. Problem is I’m still coming up blank. I’m trained to deal with all sorts of emergencies where I have to make split second decisions, but nothing like this has ever happened to me. Well, not counting this morning. And really, that happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to react. So, I’m going to have to rely on someone else’s experience. Really, there’s only one good way to figure this one out, and that’s to ask myself one simple question:

What would MacGyver do?

First thing, he’d take inventory. I bravely unlock the bathroom stall door and peek out. I’ve got…a towel dispenser. No, that’s pretty much bolted to the wall. Scratch that. Um…a trash can. I’ve got a trash can. Aaaaand…six rolls of toilet paper! Now we’re getting somewhere. Except that damn it, the trash can is bolted to the floor. Why would someone want to steal a convenience store’s bathroom trashcan?! Somehow I don’t think TPing the robber will accomplish anything.

Okay. I have six rolls of toilet paper. And pair of heavily soiled socks. I add them to my pitiful inventory list as I peel them carefully off my feet. Gross. Better wash my hands. Ooooo! Foamy soap! It’s ouchless!

What if…I cover the toilet paper with foamy soap; use the socks (after washing them with foamy soap) as a sling shot…probably not all that helpful unless I somehow manage to hit the gunman in the eyes. Even then, it would simply be an annoyance. Sadly, I don’t think even MacGyver would come up with a way to make a bomb out of this stuff. Well, the socks may be borderline lethal, but somehow I doubt I should count on it.

Back to the drawing board. Think, think, think…MacGyver was no good to me, but maybe someone else would be. What would Elliot do?

I imagine her cowering in the bathroom stall, knees to chest, feet tucked up on the stool so no one could see she’s there, mascara running down her tear-streaked face, all the while mumbling, “Frick! Frickfrickfrick…”

Yeah, that’s not helpful, either.

Cox would just storm out there and insult the robber until he handed over his weapon and surrendered in shame. Unfortunately I don’t think I’d be able to pull that off. Turk? Turk would be out there. He wouldn’t be overly brave, or do anything stupid; he’d just be there stoically keeping Carla safe. Which is what I should be doing instead of cowering in here.

At least I’m not mumbling anything. “Crap! Crapcrapcrap…”

Damnit!

My heart is pounding as I push the bathroom door open a little bit, hoping that maybe the gunman has already taken the money and run. Unfortunately as I peek out, I can see he’s still there. He’s pacing nervously in front of the door, occasionally pausing to look outside and then curse loudly. “What the hell is he doing out there?!”

“He’s just taking a coffee break. You should just go,” the store manager urges. “He probably won’t even notice you.”

“Right, and then one yell from one of you and he’s on me,” the guy argues, glaring at the guy. “I’m not going to jail.”

Then you probably shouldn’t have held up a store. I kind of wonder if it’s even worth the effort to hold up a little store like this one. It does decent business, but I wouldn’t think they’d have more than a few hundred dollars tops in cash at this time of day. Seems like a lot more risk than it’d be worth. But then, I’m not a robber, so what do I know?

“We’ll stay quiet,” Carla offers. The gunman only rolls his eyes. “No, really. We could like lie here and count to a hundred or something.” The robber snorts and I wonder if perhaps he’s some sort of demented relation of Dr. Cox. His long lost cousin, Bubba, perhaps.

“You could tie them up,” the store manager suggests. The clerk looks wide-eyed to his boss and shakes his head frantically, obviously very upset by this idea. Not that anyone would actually want to be tied up, but something tells me it’s more than just a mere objection to the temporary discomfort. “You’ll be gone before we can get the police’s attention.”

“I don’t have rope…do you carry any here?”

The manager shakes his head and frowns. The clerk visibly relaxes for a moment. “How about duct tape?” the manager suggests. “There’s some in aisle three.”

The robber looks thoughtful for a moment, then nods. “You,” he points to Carla. “Go get a couple rolls.”

The store clerk begins making a weird noise. Like he can’t breathe. His face is even starting to turn a little red. Even from my distance I can see the little beads of sweat on his forehead.

“What the--?”

“He’s having a heart attack!” Carla snaps as she quickly gets up and moves toward the clerk. I’d venture that he’s probably not actually having a heart attack but an anxiety attack. The symptoms are superficially identical, and the situation definitely lends itself to panic, especially if he’s got a particular fear of being tied up. I’m sure that Carla knows it’s more likely just an anxiety attack, too, so I’m betting she’s hoping that if this guy thinks the clerk is dying, they might just decide to get the heck out of here. It helps her case that pretty much every television show ever that has had a store robbery has included the heart attack scene.

Her plan hits an immediate snag. “You! Don’t move!”

My eyes widen as the gun is once again pointed directly at Carla. “But--"

The gunman steps menacingly toward her and she freezes. My mouth goes dry as he grabs her arm and then presses the gun to her forehead. I can see her eyes close. The guy’s arm is trembling slightly and I just know that’s a bad sign. He’s freaked out, which means that he’s likely to do something impulsive and stupid--like shooting someone--than if he truly felt he was in control. Not just someone. Carla. He could shoot Carla. I have to stop this!

“You need to let us treat him,” I call out as I ease out of my hiding spot. I raise my hands and walk slowly toward them silently praying that I don’t startle him enough to cause him to shoot Carla or me.

“What the--" The gunman focuses his attention on me. The gun that was on Carla turns toward me. I stop moving. In fact, I think I stop breathing. It’s probably a really good thing that I already made use of the facilities or it would probably prove to be a really embarrassing moment. After a few moments of silence I start moving closer again, ignoring every instinct that is telling me to turn and run.

“You don’t want him to die,” I speak softly but with a confidence that I’m not really feeling. “Let us help him.” My heart is pounding so hard, I swear he should be able to hear it, but I somehow manage to maintain eye contact. After a few tense moments, I see him relax slightly and give a small nod, dismissing me as any sort of threat. If I weren’t so relieved, I’d probably be insulted. I’m more concerned about getting Carla away from him, though. “Nurse Espinosa,” I address her formally, not wanting to reveal to this guy that we’re anything more than colleagues, “could you please assist me?” Her eyes meet mine and she nods in understanding.

“Of course, Dr. Dorian,” she agrees, though it takes a few moments before the gunman releases her arm so she can comply. She quickly moves to the clerk’s side. I move to follow, but the gunman stops me, gripping my arm tight and placing the gun at my chest. I watch as Carla and the store manager help the clerk to lie down and Carla loosens his tie. She looks up at me, and hesitates as she sees the gun being pointed at my chest. Then turns her attention back to the man who is clearly still struggling to breathe.

“We need to get him to a hospital.” To my credit, my voice doesn’t betray my fear in the slightest. “It will take at least five minutes for an ambulance to get here,” I fudge the number a little bit considering that Sacred Heart is only a few blocks away. “You’ll have plenty of time to get out.”

The gun digs in a little more. “There is a cop sitting right across the street. How long do you think it’ll take him to get here?” Somehow I doubt he really wants to hear my answer. “You’re a doctor. You help him.”

He shoves me hard enough to send me sprawling next to the clerk. My head spins from the sudden movement and it takes me a few moments to be able to move without fear of vomiting again. I think at this point I’ve completely emptied all the contents from my stomach, but dry heaving doesn’t sound all that appealing, either.

“You okay, Bambi?” Carla asks in a very quiet voice.

I nod as I shakily get to my hands and knees and move toward the clerk. “How’s he doing?” I frown as I realize that the clerk is unconscious.

“He’s just fainted,” she assures me softly. “Pulse is strong. He should be okay.”

I glance up at the robber, who is back to peering out the door at the officer that is still parked across the street. I have to do something or this situation is only going to get worse. It may not be a busy store, but the longer he’s here, the better the chance that someone else is going to walk in on this. Or perhaps that cop will finish his coffee and stops by to pick up a newspaper or a donut or something. If we don’t get the gunman out of here, it’s only a matter of time before someone does get hurt.

“I’m going to get him out of here,” I whisper. Carla and the store manager both shake their heads.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” the manager protests. “Just stay cool and he’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

“Yeah, or someone else comes in here and gets shot,” I counter.

I get to my feet and slowly move toward the phone. “I need to call an ambulance,” I announce as the gunman looks toward me. He shakes his head, but I don’t stop, even as the gun rises. My heart is pounding, but I reach for the phone anyway.

And suddenly there’s a gun pressed to my neck and he’s pressing me against the counter. I hear Carla gasp, but for some reason the threat seems to have the opposite effect as what it should and I suddenly feel astoundingly calm. Everything becomes clear. I hold my hands out as if surrendering as I turn around to face the gun.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun in my face,” I inform him, purely as a distraction as my fingers curl around the phone. I become aware of Carla rising to her feet behind us, and realize I don’t have much time before she’ll be placing herself in greater danger. “It’s not even the first time, today,” I add as he suddenly doesn’t look as sure of himself. I almost smile as he twitches. It’s now or never. “This man is going to die if he doesn’t--" I don’t bother to finish as I grab the phone and swing as hard as I can, slamming it into the gunman’s head. He drops like a lead weight and the gun goes scattering across the floor. Yes! I can’t believe that worked! I wonder if they’ll give me a medal or something…

Carla hugs me around the waist, burying her face in my chest for a few moments while we both regain our bearings. I feel myself starting to shake as the false bravado immediately wears off. I hug Carla back, relieved that we’ve made it through. Just a few more minutes and we’ll be home and this’ll all just be a bad memory that we can use to guilt Turk into buying us dinner. Maybe tomorrow night when I don’t feel like throwing up anymore.

The store manager scurries around us and retrieves the gun.

It’s about that moment that Carla suddenly stiffens and looks up at me with wide eyes. “Them.”

My brow furrows in confusion.

“He said, ‘them’,” she says, her voice rising almost an octave. “Not us, them!”

I still didn’t get it until a moment later I felt the barrel of the gun pressing into the back of my neck. “You damn well better hope my brother’s okay,” the store manager growls and I feel the hair on the back of my neck rising. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” I swallow hard, but can’t make myself answer. Not that he really expects me to. “You, grab a first aid kit,” he orders Carla. “You’re gonna help me get him to the car.”

Reluctantly we both obey, Carla disappears into the medical aisle while I try unsuccessfully to wake the robber. He’s down for the count. I look guiltily up at the store manager, who curses and looks back outside.

When Carla returns, he takes the kit from her and then shoves her toward me. “Hey!” I protest, but stop as he points the gun at me again.

“Get him up,” he instructs us. “Don’t try anything funny.”

Like what? Does he expect me to suddenly start juggling? I wisely keep that thought to myself as Carla and I struggle to drag the store manager’s brother to his feet.

“Okay, you guys walk in front of me. Don’t do anything to draw attention.” I’m not sure how I manage to keep one foot moving in front of the other I’m so nervous. I can’t help but wonder what’s going to happen once we get them to the car. I somehow just don’t think he’s going to just let us go.

We reach the door and I stop. “I can carry him by myself,” I offer, only slightly ashamed at how my voice wavers. “Just let her stay here.” Carla gapes at me and I can see she’s conflicted about whether or not to protest. She isn’t given a chance as the store manager just gives us a little nudge with the gun.

“You’ll get in the back with him,” he tells me. “You’re gonna drive,” he adds to Carla. He stoops down and picks up the bag that presumably has the store’s money and suddenly there’s only one question that pops into my head.

How’d he end up with my backpack?

“You could let us off anywhere along here,” I suggest, trying to sound casual despite the fact that my voice is probably about half an octave higher than normal. Three-fourths an octave at most.

The store manager doesn’t answer. He just rubs his temple as though he’s got a big headache. It’s probably stress related even though he’s not the one who’s been kidnapped.

My mind drifts back to the backpack that he has sitting in his lap. Given the circumstances, it seems a petty thing to dwell on, but I can’t make myself stop. How did these guys end up with it? I didn’t get a good look at the man who shoved me down the stairs, but I had the distinct impression that he was more…unkempt than either of these two men. Was that just my mind playing tricks on me? Still, it seems unlikely that the store manager was at the hospital. His brother might have been, but I really think the guy who hit me was bigger. So what? Was there a third guy in on this thing somehow? It just doesn’t seem like robbing the convenience store should be such a big operation though. Why would they need to steal a bag to pull it off anyway? Maybe the guy who took it just tossed it in the garbage or something.

I picture the grungy guy rifling through the backpack as he staggers down the street, leaving a trail of my stuff as he goes. He flips through my wallet before shrugging and tossing it over his shoulder. As he’s passing the convenience store, he reaches into the bag once again and pulls out my scrubs shirt. His eyes light up and a stream of light beams down on him from the heavens as he pulls the matching pants and my stethoscope as well, letting the bag tumble from his grasp as he turns and scurries back to the hospital, donning the outfit as he goes. I can see him walking the halls, laughing with the janitor, chatting up the nurses, pretending to diagnose patients… Oh, God! Now he’s sitting in the lounge on the sofa next to Dr. Cox as they watch stories together! This is so unfair!

I cringe as he gathers the material of the shirt into his hand and pulls it up to take a big sniff--

Okay, I definitely need to focus on something else.

“At least let Nurse Espinosa go,” I try to bargain. “I can drive you wherever you want to go.” I see Carla giving me a warning look in the rearview mirror. She shakes her head ever-so-slightly, though I can tell that she’s conflicted. I’m not; Turk would never forgive me if I let anything happen to her. I’m not sure I would forgive me, either.

“Why isn’t he waking up yet?” Our captor asks, ignoring my offer.

I glance at his brother and feel a little bit guilty as I see the thin trail of blood that has dribbled from his hairline down to his chin. I must have clocked--rather phoned--him pretty hard. Despite the fact that it seems like it’s been hours, I know we’ve only been driving for about two minutes, which means that he’s only been unconscious for about three or four. Still, that’s a long time to be out.

“He’ll be fine,” I assure the store manager, hoping that I’m not lying. Because the robber lost consciousness for longer than a minute he does have at least a grade 3 concussion, which means there’s a lot greater possibility of there being a more traumatic brain injury. I’m slightly relieved to note that he’s starting to move a little bit and making small groaning sounds, though. I’d probably be ecstatic that one of my two abductors be incapacitated except that I have a really bad feeling that Carla and I won’t be set free until the robber is in at least decent shape. My stomach churns as an uncomfortable thought tries to fight its way to the surface of my consciousness. I refuse to acknowledge it; I have to keep positive about this. We’ll get home tonight, I know we will.

“He better be,” the manager grumbles, looking back over his shoulder at his brother.

For a brief moment I entertain the idea of lunging at him and taking the gun while he’s distracted. I’m wiry enough that it probably wouldn’t be too hard to get between the seats. But would I be quick enough? What if I got wedged in or if he shot Carla before I could actually get to the gun? It’s a risk I can’t take, so I stay obediently in my seat.

I turn my attention to the brother as he struggles toward consciousness. His eyelids begin to flutter and he starts to sit up a little bit. “You should stay still,” I tell him softly, the doctor in me taking over as I gently press his shoulder back down against the seat. Sitting up too fast will most likely result in a Code Green.

His eyes open fully and he peers up at me in confusion. I’m not sure if it’s a ‘what happened’ questioning look or if it’s concussion-induced, so I decide to answer the first one. “You hit your head,” I explain, choosing not to reveal that I’m the one who hit him in the head. I fear he’ll remember that soon enough. First thing, I need to check his vision. I hold up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”

After a brief moment, he answers correctly. The small hesitation could be a sign of disorientation, or it could be that his vision is blurry. If we were in the clinic, I’d probably follow up, but I decide to just stick to the basic exam and we’ll come back to vision later. “Good. Okay, now I’m going to ask you a few simple questions. Is that okay?”

He nods slightly, though I swear I can feel his brother staring at me. A glance up confirms my suspicion. I swallow nervously as I think I can actually feel his hatred of me pouring off him in waves. “I just need to check for signs of--" I bite back the words ‘brain damage’, and quickly amend to, “concussion.” I quickly turn my focus back to my patient, doing my best to ignore the death glare from the front seat. “Do you know where you are?”

His eyes dart around slightly. “My car.”

Good. I don’t even want to ask the next one, but I know I’m going to have to. “Do you remember what happened?” I’m not sure whether to be relieved or not when he shakes his head slightly. It’s not uncommon for patients with concussions to experience post-traumatic amnesia and not remember the event or things that lead up to it. Often it clears up within a matter of minutes, but since he answered negatively, it does require me to make sure that it’s not more serious than that. “Can you tell me your full name?”

“Michael James Ray,” he answers. In the moment of silence that follows, I realize I’ve just made a huge mistake. I look up at the rearview mirror with wide apologetic eyes and can see the shocked fear plastered across Carla’s face. I don’t have a chance to say anything to her though, before I find myself staring down the barrel of the gun.

Again.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, my voice no louder than a whisper. My hands shake as I raise them defensively. As if they could stop a bullet. “I didn’t mean…”

“Kev?” Michael asks, clearly confused.

“You idiot!” the store manager--Kevin I presume--berates him.

“I’m sorry,” I can’t help myself from apologizing again. I try to assure myself that knowing their names changes nothing. It wasn’t as though we weren’t going to be able to figure out who they were. We knew where the store manager worked, and we knew that the robber was his brother, so it wouldn’t have taken police more than a couple minutes tops to come up with their identities. Still, now there’s absolutely no denying that we know. Which means that they can’t let us go.

“We won’t say anything,” Carla begins trying to soothe the situation. “We won’t go to the police. They don’t even have to know we were there.”

“You drive there?” the manager snaps at her. Her expression betrays her guilt. “They’re gonna know you were there. Christ…there’s no way I can go back there, now.” Unless they kill the witnesses, I hear the words he doesn’t speak.

“We’ll just say you were taken hostage, too,” I suggest, knowing that it’s a lame idea but grasping at straws. “Just drop us off and we’ll say that--" I’m startled as Michael suddenly bolts upright. I instinctively shrink back.

“Kev?! What’d…?” He gapes at me as realization begins to dawn. “This was supposed to be a simple little job. You promised me…” He nervously runs his fingers through his hair, looking almost as freaked out as I feel. “I just take the money and go. You get the insurance. Nobody gets hurt.”

“Tell that to the doc.”

Michael looks at me and his expression darkens, his eyes narrowing to slits. My heart leaps into my throat as both of our captors focus their attention on me. “You hit me,” Michael accuses aloud. I can’t deny it, so I say nothing. My silence only seems to make him angrier. I flinch as he lets out a string of obscenities. He reaches into the front to take the gun from Kevin and then, once again, it’s pointed at my head. “This is your fault!” he yells at me and I press myself against the car door, fleetingly wondering if I should just open it and make a leap for it. If I can protect my head, odds are I won’t die, but I’d probably break a few bones and end up with a serious case of road rash. It be worth it except that I’d also leave Carla alone with two men who are quite likely to kill her. I can’t do it even though they’re probably going to kill us both sooner or later, anyway. Judging from his murderous look, I’d venture it’s going to be sooner rather than later. I close my eyes as he leans toward me, pressing the gun to my forehead.

“I’m sorry,” I find myself whispering again, my voice quivering uncontrollably. My blood feels like it's turning to ice in my veins and I think I’m starting to shake again. I want to plead for our lives, but I can’t seem to make my mouth move anymore. This is it.

I’m thrown off balance as the car swerves. I feel the gun moving away from my head and look up wildly, trying to figure out what’s going on. I hear the sound of flesh on flesh and it takes a moment for it to register that I’ve just seen Kevin hitting Carla. Rage flows through me, but I’m helpless to do anything about it as he strikes her again. She cries out and her hands fly up to protect her face, leaving the car to veer out of control.

Kevin grabs the wheel and quickly rights the car. “Get your hands back on the wheel!” It takes her a few moments, but Carla obeys. “Try anything like that again and I swear we’ll kill you.” As if they weren’t going to? “Christ, I can’t think!”

“What’re we going to do?” Michael mutters more to himself than to any of the rest of us.

I see Carla peering at me in the mirror and realize that she must have purposely tried to crash in a last ditch (no pun) effort to save me. While it’s granted me a brief reprieve, it’s clearly made our captors even more panicky and unstable.

“Pull over there,” Kevin directs her, frantically. Carla obeys and pulls into the parking lot he’s motioning to. “Around the side,” he orders. She follows his directions, slowing to a stop at the side of the building. Michael throws open his car door, grabs me by the scruff of my neck and pulls me out with him, pushing me to the ground and standing over me. I don’t have to look to know that once again my life is moments away from ending.

“Shit, I can’t do it!” I hear Michael admitting. I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I can’t make myself move, either, too afraid that if I do, he’ll change his mind.

“We can’t do it here, anyway,” Kevin tells him. “Too many people around. If they hear it, they might see us take off.” I roll just enough that I can see his shoes, with Carla’s right next to them. “Damn it. I need time to think…”

I don’t have any forewarning whatsoever before a foot drives full force into my side, knocking the wind out of me. “This is your fault!” Michael kicks me again, harder. And again.

“Stop!” I hear Carla begging as I try to curl myself into a smaller target, trying to protect my head and my vulnerables as best I can. The blows continue for only a few more moments before Michael is pulled away.

“Not here!” Kevin hisses. “Get him up. I know where we’re going.”

I feel hands grasp my hips and I’m lifted from the ground. Moments later I find myself being shoved into the trunk of the car. No! I try to get up, but before I can Carla is shoved in on top of me and the lid is slammed shut, trapping us both. I want to scream, but still haven’t been able to catch my breath.

I can hear Carla’s breath hitching and feel a light wetness on my neck. I feel a lump in my throat, but manage to stave off my own tears. Instead I focus on comforting her; if she’s calm, it’ll calm me, too. I shift our bodies, so I can wrap my arms around her and rest my chin against the top of her head. As if in reply, I feel her returning the embrace and she rests her head against my chest as if she’s listening to my heartbeat. We’re pressed so close, I’m not sure which of us is the one who is shaking. Maybe we both are. God, Carla, I’m so sorry...I swear I’m going to get you out of this!

“You okay?” Carla is the first to break the silence.

I’m going to have a few nasty bruises, but I’m pretty certain that nothing is broken. “Yeah…you?”

She doesn’t answer, and for the next few minutes, neither of us speaks. My mind races, but coherent thought seems next to impossible as my head begins to throb again. I try at first to keep track of the directions the car is going, but after no more than a couple turns I know it’s an exercise in futility. I just can’t concentrate. I want to believe that it matters, but my gut tells me that it really doesn’t. I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I really don’t think we’re going to get home.

But I’m going to give Carla as much of a chance to get home to Izzy and Turk as I possibly can.

“Carla?” I whisper. I feel her head tilting toward mine, her lips ever so softly grazing against my throat, and then the sensation of her breath against my chin. For an insane moment the sensation makes me lightly intoxicated and I nearly kiss her before realizing that my fear and our close proximity is totally triggering my body’s primal instincts. Embarrassed, I flush guiltily, relieved that she can’t tell where my head is. And that it will never ever get back to Turk.

I imagine myself standing on the stairs of city hall being presented a medal for my bravery. “Thank you for saving my life!” Carla swoons as she gives me a great big hug.

Turk stands before us, a wide grin across his face. “I owe you, Vanilla Bear!” he says as he holds up the medal and motions for me to duck my head a little so he can put it on me.

“It was nothing!” I insist, bashfully trying to wave off the medal. Turk gives me a look that lets me know he’s not giving up until I take it. I ‘reluctantly’ bow my head and wait for him to put in on. “By the way, I’m so relieved you’re not upset that I totally macked on your wife. Crazy impending death reactions--"

“Gyaaaaaaaah!” Turk screams as suddenly he whips out a samurai sword and brings it crashing down on my neck. My head rolls down a couple steps and stares up at my body and the Turks.

Carla is cringing and looking down at my head with an apologetic look. “I kind of left that part out,” she tells me. “It was nothing, baby,” she assures Turk, who returns the sword to the sheath on his back and looks down at me repentantly.

“Sorry, dude.”

“That’s okay. Now I can finally realize my life-long dream of becoming--"

“Floating head doctor!” we both finish together. My body’s arms rise and wave in a victory flail. All’s well that ends well.

Still, it’s probably better that I don’t give into the impulse. Instead I focus on my resolve to get her home safely.

“When they let us out, promise me that you’ll run.” She sucks in her breath, but before she can protest I continue. “I’m going to distract them. Don’t…whatever happens, just run.”

“Bambi, no. Turk’d never forgive me if I let something happen to you.” I can’t help but laugh just a tiny bit. “What?” She sounds slightly offended.

“Sorry. I just…he’d never forgive me if I let something happen to you.”

She lets out a small chuckle, too, before she tucks her head back under my chin and tightens her embrace a little bit. “Then I guess we’re just going to have to make sure that nothing happens to either of us, Bambi,” she murmurs, her soft slightly raspy voice actually giving me slight chills. Crazy impending death reactions. I smile and gently kiss the top of her head, feeling much better than I should. In fact, I feel oddly euphoric considering how uncomfortably hot it’s getting…wait. Euphoric? I blink and my mind begins racing again. I shouldn’t be feeling euphoric by any stretch of the imagination.

Unless.

Oh, God. We’re in the trunk of a moving car. Add in the consideration that it’s an older car. Symptoms. Headache--I had it before, so not sure I should count it, but I do anyway. Nausea, yes, have that, too. Trouble concentrating. All of that was present before, and has other explanations. But euphoria? That was definitely new and definitely unwarranted. It also helps explain my sudden goofy…’feelings’ for Carla. All these things added up to carbon monoxide poisoning as a distinct possibility.

We need fresh air. Fast. If I’m already feeling the effects, it’s only a matter of a few minutes tops before we both pass out. And then we’re as good as dead. I frantically reach past Carla and begin pushing on the trunk’s lid.

“Bambi?” I know it can’t possibly be that easy, but I strain to push as hard as I can anyway. It’s no use. Maybe there’s a lever of some sort? My fingers fumble against the metal, but find no purchase. Oh, god. “JD, what are you doing?”

“Carbon Monoxide,” I blurt out. “We’re being poisoned!”

Carla struggles to roll off of me. At first I think she’s going to help me pound on the trunk lid, but instead she starts pulling at the carpeting that lines the bottom of the trunk. What is she doing? “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before…” she whispers. A few moments later she’s pulled up the carpeting a bit and is seemingly punching the side of the car. I can’t imagine why she would have thought about doing that before, either. Or why she’s thinking of it now.

A moment later, all is revealed as suddenly she pulls something away from the wall and then there’s sunlight shining into our tiny prison. I roll onto my side and snug up against her again as we breathe in the fresh air that flows into the small opening she’s made. My brow furrows as she suddenly reaches forward again, pushing her hand through the small opening. “Saw it on Oprah once,” she answers my question before I can ask. Except that I can’t make sense of her answer, either.

Today on Oprah, punching holes in cars--it's the latest craze!

“Um…”

“People who survived…” she stops for a moment before continuing, I suspect skipping over some words she doesn’t want to say. “If you’re ever trapped in the trunk of a car, you can sometimes pull out the turn signal lights. This woman was rescued because someone following the car saw her waving.”

If this works, I swear I’ll write Oprah the biggest fan letter she’s ever seen. Except for my luck her security will probably single it out and think that I’m some sort of crazy stalker. Maybe I’ll just send her a postcard.

Unfortunately, her idea doesn’t seem to be working. Several minutes pass but I don’t hear any sirens, or even any honking. When she tires, we shift positions and I take a turn and we alternate waving until what seems like hours later we feel the car slowing to a stop. Carla pulls her hand in and props the light back up, shrouding us once again in total darkness. I feel her pressing back against me and I put my arm protectively around her.

The silence as we await our fate is insanely unnerving. After a few moments, Carla takes hold of my hand, her fingers entwining with mine. I close my eyes and rest my chin against the top of her head. I silently promise again that somehow I will get her home tonight, no matter what it costs me.

We both tense as we hear someone approaching the trunk. I hold my breath as it pops open. Carla cries out as Michael grabs her and roughly jerks her from my arms. I start to try and get up as well only to have Kevin haul me out before I can get my bearings. I stumble as he pushes me in front of him. My legs are weakened and sore from being cramped in the trunk that it’s hard to stay upright. I’m not sure if it’s because she noticed me having trouble, or if it’s because she just wants the comfort of physical contact, but Carla quickly moves to my side and steadies me.

“Gotta get a little ways away from the road,” Kevin directs us and we’re forced to walk a little ways into the wooded area where he’s stopped the car. The deeper we go into the woods, the faster my heart races. Even after I’m steady on my feet, I hold fast to Carla, feeling as though she’s my last lifeline. I want to turn around and make a grab for the gun, but I’m too afraid that if I don’t time it just right, I’ll blow our last chance of survival. I have to try and have faith that the moment will present itself.

“Okay, hold up,” Kevin directs us. We stop and I look over my shoulder at them. Maybe they’ll find it harder to shoot if they have to look at our faces.

To my astonishment, I see that Michael is actually crying. “This is your fault,” he accuses me yet again. Yeah, I get it. I should have just stayed in the bathroom back at the convenience store. Maybe then they would have just waited out the police officer that’d been outside. Michael would have gotten away, and would have had no need to take Carla hostage. Kevin wouldn’t have to kill us so that he could return to his normal life. Carla would probably be home with her daughter by now instead of standing here beside me, silent tears on rolling down her cheeks.

“Get on your knees,” Kevin orders, though I swear I can hear a small tremor. He’s having second thoughts. Maybe there’s hope for us yet.

“You don’t have to do this,” Carla tries to reason with him. “Just let us go. You’ll be long gone before we get help. Please. I just want to go home to my daughter!”

“Get on your knees!” he barks and reluctantly Carla and I both drop.

I reach out for Carla’s hand. When she looks at me, I can see the utter helplessness she’s feeling. I’m not going to let this happen. I give her hand a squeeze and in that instant I see a spark of defiance light in her eyes. I swallow hard as I feel the gun press against the side of my neck. I can feel it shaking and realize that it’s because Kevin himself is as well. There isn’t going to be a moment that presents itself, I realize. I’m going to have to make one, and it’s going to have to be now.

While every instinct is telling me to try and get away from Kevin and the gun, I know that won’t work, so our only chance is to do the opposite. Without taking any time to think ahead or giving myself an opportunity to consider the consequences, I launch myself backward.

To my astonishment it works and as I knock Kevin to the ground, he loses his grip on the gun and it drops to the ground right beside to Carla. I see her scramble to grab it and my heart leaps when I see it within her grasp.

“Run!” I call to her just as Michael crashes into me, knocking me away from his brother. Then he’s on me in a flurry of kicks and punches. I do my best to defend myself, but I’m not much of a fighter and he subdues me with embarrassing ease. Once he has me effectively pinned, I force myself to relax my body in temporary surrender while I try to catch my breath and hope for him to let his guard down a little. At least that was the plan until I become aware of the sounds of struggle a few feet away. Carla hadn’t run. Or if she had, she hadn’t gotten very far. Kevin grunts with pain and I almost smile as I picture Carla-from-the-Block doling out some justice.

I know I can’t beat Michael using physical strength, but knowing that Carla’s still fighting makes me realize that I can’t stop trying. If I can’t win by physical strength, it’s going to have to be by mental. I know the most vulnerable spots on a human body and fighting dirty doesn’t count when it’s a fight for your life. Most of my body is pinned, so I can’t reach his danglies. I can’t really even get a good swing in to try and get his sternum or throat. Which leaves his eyes. I curl my fingers, not into a fist, but into a claw and strike.

He screams as I gouge his face and for a moment he jerks away. It’s long enough for me to wriggle free. I kick out, aiming for his giblets. He’s ready for it, though, and manages to dodge. And then he’s on me again. I try to throw him off, but once again I find myself pinned, this time with his hands around my throat, squeezing hard enough that I can’t breathe. I claw frantically at his hands, but it’s no use. I can’t breathe!

My vision is starting to cloud and I feel even weaker than usual. My arms feel so heavy it’s tempting to just stop. I fought a good fight--well, I fought a fairly pathetic fight, but I fought it--but it seems my time is up.

No!

I’m not sure where the strength comes from--actually I do! Adrenaline rush! Wheeee!--but I buck as hard as I can, trying to throw my assailant off. It doesn’t entirely work. He’s still choking me, but I manage to roll us both slightly. Enough that my left leg is free. Watch out giblets, here comes Dorian!

As my knee hits its mark, four things happen simultaneously. Michael screams. His hands abandon my throat. His body curls away from me.

And the gun goes off.

My whole body jerks as I gasp for the air my lungs have been deprived of. I fight to get to my hands and knees.

“JD!” Carla screams behind me. I look over my shoulder and am horrified as I see Kevin trying to force the gun out of her hands. One instant it’s pointed toward him, the next it’s aimed at Carla.

I launch to my feet, but there’s no way I’ll make it in time.

The gun goes off again and I see Carla falling as if in slow motion, a patch of red growing on the front of her shirt. No!

I take another step but something is wrong with my leg and I start to fall, knocking into Kevin and we’re both going down. The gun lands just within my reach and I take it. I don’t have time to take aim so I swing it instead at Kevin’s head, striking with full force. He falls limp, but I don’t take the chance and slam it into his head again. My hands shake as I stare mesmerized, at the gun in my hands. I want to drop it. Hell I want to throw it as far away from me as I can, but I don’t. Instead I turn it around so that it settles into its proper position. I can’t bring myself to aim it, though. I can’t believe for the second time today I’ve actually hit someone hard enough to knock them out. I know both were completely justified, but I still feel sick. Maybe that’s just the flu talking, but I don’t think so.

And then I hear Michael coming up behind me.

My body is working on automatic pilot as I twist toward him and fire.

In the moments of silence that follow I know that my world has completely changed.

I think I just killed someone.

The gun tumbles from my hands and I fall forward as my stomach heaves. I’m pretty sure that I’ve already expelled everything I’ve ever eaten and there’s nothing left to throw up, but that doesn’t stop my body from trying. It takes a few moments for my tummy to settle enough that I can look at the carnage around me. Even then I can’t make any sense of the scene. It just makes me feel completely numb, like I’m detached from my own body and not in a good ‘floating head doctor’ way.

Why is it that everything looks so simple when it happens on television? Take this scene for instance. The first 40 minutes of our show has been filled with intense action sequences where it’s looked like the bad guys might just win, but now, in the final minutes, the good guy has fallen into a bit of luck and simultaneously gotten the upper hand, shot the bad guy, and saved the girl. The bad guys were most certainly going to kill the good guy, so there’s no reason to feel any empathy toward them; they got what they deserved. Besides, as we’ll find out in the closing scene, the nefarious dastards will live to spend the rest of their days in jail while everyone else lives happily ever after. At least until the next episode.

What the TV doesn’t show you is that the girl might get seriously injured or that the bad guys might be scared or might even cry because they don’t really want to kill but feel trapped by their circumstances. It definitely doesn’t show you a hero who simultaneously collapses, vomits, and pees his pants after he shoots the villain. I don’t remember the last thing happening, yet the dampness in my pants indicates it’s happened.

Not that I’m much of a hero, or really one at all. I certainly don’t feel like one. How can I be a hero when it’s my fault that we ended up in this mess in the first place? Even if Carla had still been taken from the store, it’s unlikely that Kevin would have gone along for the ride and nobody would ever have been the wiser that he was involved. I’m pretty sure that Michael wouldn’t have killed her if he’d been acting alone, and if he’d tried, I’ll bet Carla could have talked him out of it.

Or beaten the snot out of him.

She had been doing pretty well holding her own against Kevin until I distracted her; I heard her calling out my name right before it happened. It hadn’t been a call for my help, but a clearly horrified cry. She must have seen me being choked and it distracted her enough so that Kevin got the upper hand. I’m the reason she got shot, and yet I can’t seem to make myself go help her. I could blame the fact that the soles of my bare feet are torn and bloody from walking over the rough terrain, except that I can’t really even seem to feel them. I can’t make myself move. I can’t do this on my own!

“Hey there, Killer,” I hear the janitor greeting me in my head. Gyaah! So not the help I need!

“For God’s sake, Myrtle, are you really going to just sit there feeling sorry for yourself?”

I hear Dr. Cox and smile with relief. Now, that’s more like it!

“Are you so pathetic that you’re going to let your black boyfriend’s wife die in hopes that maybe--just maybe--he’ll take a break from his grieving to notice you and marry you on the rebound? Oh wait. I know this answer, and it’s a great buh-hig resounding yuh-huh! But do you honestly think you can live with yourself knowing that he’ll never really love you like he loves her and that you’ll be living in his dead wife’s shadow for the rest of your pitiable life? Cuz if you can’t, you better get off your frail little hands and knees and make yourself useful.” I blink. Just because he’s an illusion doesn’t mean he’s not right. I have to move. “And for God’s sake, Hortense, change your diaper,” he gives me a thoroughly disgusted look. When I don’t immediately move he growls and throws his hands up in exasperation and stalks behind me, turning to give me a surprisingly hard kick in the ass to get me moving.

I force myself to my feet, wincing as I swear I can actually feel a sharp pain where my imaginary mentor kicked me. My leg is still all pins and needles, but I push that all out of my mind as I shuffle the few steps over to Carla. I’m relieved to see that she’s still breathing. She rolls her face toward me, her eyes wide with fear. She relaxes slightly as she sees it’s me and an expression I can’t quite read replaces the alarm. After a moment, she looks away, and I can see her blinking rapidly, trying to hold back more tears. God, Carla, I’m so sorry!

I drop down beside her, crying out involuntarily as a sharp pain shoots down my leg. I bite my lip for a moment and try to force the pain into the back of my mind so that I can focus on Carla. She’s the one who’s been shot; I’m recovering from being cramped in the trunk of a car. There really isn’t much of a comparison here.

“So quit your whining and get to work, Betsy!” Perry puts me back in my place. I can just see him glaring at me for thinking of him as “Perry” instead of Dr. Cox.

Okay, quick assessment time. She’s breathing and is aware of her surroundings, both good signs. One thing about bullet wounds is that despite how they’re often depicted on TV, most of the time the real damage is internal and unless it’s nicked an artery, the blood isn’t going to be spurting everywhere. Since she’s not spurting blood, there’s no nicked artery. The entry wound is in her shoulder, but I have to find out if the bullet is still in her, or where it exited. If it’s still in her, moving her could be too dangerous to attempt.

“Carla?” I address her soothingly. She flinches, but won’t look at me. “I need to see if the bullet’s still…” Her chin dips slightly in a nod. “I’m going to help you sit up, just a tiny bit. Let me do the work; you try to relax and don’t fight it.” Again her chin dips, so I carefully slide my hand beneath her shoulder and lift gently. Before I even see it, I can feel the exit wound and let her down gently again. The damage, though serious, is to sinew and bone, not vital organs. “I’m pretty sure it went clean through,” I tell her the good news, hoping it’ll make her feel better.

Okay so what else do I know about gunshot wounds? Most of the time, the victims are immediately turfed to surgery because they’ve already been stabilized by paramedics by the time they arrive. Once in a while, though, a victim will stumble into the emergency room on his or her own. I have to remember procedure and do my best.

“You have to secure the area,” I hear Elliot telling me the first rule for treating gunshot victims. “If you don’t secure it, you could end up getting shot yourself and then you’re not going to be any good to anyone. Safety first. You know, that’s what my mother used to say right before she’d send me out on my bike to the grocery store late at night…” she gets a far away look for a moment. “I never did get that headlight she promised me…” she murmurs then shakes her head as if it clears the random tangent she was about to go on, and returns to helping me figure out what to do. “Oh! And ideally you shouldn’t move the victim unless their safety is in jeopardy, so I’d say you should move her as soon as possible.”

At least my delusions are somewhat helpful.

I’ll have to make sure Carla’s stable enough but I agree with Elliot…who’s really a figment of my imagination, so I guess I’m agreeing with myself. The way my thoughts seem to be rambling, I’d say that I’m still channeling her…Frick!

I need to make sure that it’s safe for us to stay here long enough to stabilize Carla. But then what if while I’m doing that one of the brothers wakes up? So I need to get her away before that happens, but if she’s not stable enough then moving her would--

“Focus, Newbie!” Cox barks at me. “And for God’s sake, secure the area.” He looks pointedly at where I’ve left the gun on the ground.

Right. I can do this. Assure safety first.

I gently brush the hair out of Carla’s face. “Stay as still as possible, I’ll be right back,” I promise her.

I glance at Kevin to make sure he’s still unconscious, dreading the moment when I have to check on Michael. I have to find out if I’ve killed him. Part of me tells me that I shouldn’t care, that is was going to be either me or him walking away. That doesn’t alleviate the guilt I feel, though. I can’t get the mantra that was drilled into me as a medical student out of my head. ‘Primum non nocere’, or the more commonly recognized, ‘First do no harm’. I wanted to be a doctor so I could help save lives. Dr. Cox has always tried to prepare me for the time when I’d accidentally kill someone, but I don’t know that I can ever accept it when it wasn’t an accident. I pointed a gun at a living, breathing man and pulled the trigger. How am I supposed to live with that?

“Suck it up, Newbie. You’re running out of time. Or do you really want to have to kill the other one, too?” the Cox in my head prods me.

“Maybe I didn’t kill him,” I reply softly, earning me a brief glance from Carla, whose expression I still can’t decipher. I have to check on Michael, if nothing else, to ensure that he’s not about to bounce up and attack us again. I gingerly crawl back to him. Even though I don’t really even want to touch it again, I scoop up the gun and tuck it into my waistband for safe keeping before I turn my attention to Michael.

His breathing is shallow, and I can hear a little bit of a rasp, but he’s definitely breathing. So I haven’t killed him…yet. From the location of his wound and the way he sounds, I’d venture that the bullet has likely pierced a lung. It’s probably filling up with fluids and causing that rattle in his breath. He’s going to need help as quickly as I can get it and even then, his odds aren’t that great, especially if infection sets in. But doing anything about that is beyond anything I can do out here in the woods with no supplies. Maybe if I get to the car and get that first aid kit…

What am I thinking? I have to focus on Carla. Michael brought this on himself, and I don’t care.

Damn it, yes I do…I shouldn’t, but I do.

But I care far more about Carla. I have to get her back to the car so I can bandage her wounds.

That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t spend 30 seconds to give him a fighting chance, though, right? I’m torn. Carla is my priority, but I know once I get her out of here, I’ll have better sense than to come back, so anything I do for him will have to be before we go. I need to apply pressure to the wound with a bandage of some sort. I peel off my shirt. It’s not ideal, and certainly not sterile, but it will have to suffice. I crumple it and press it to the wound. General rule of thumb would be to apply pressure for at least the first ten minutes, but there’s no way I’m going to take the time to stay here to press on it. Michael’s too weak to do it himself. I shiver slightly as I look back at Kevin and find myself hesitating again.

“Oh for Christ sakes, Maybelle,” Cox growls in annoyance.

I’m going to have to take the risk that helping his brother will take precedence over taking me out. I keep one hand poised over the gun as I approach Kevin, praying silently that I don’t have to use it. Fortunately, he’s still out cold. My heart pounds faster again as I reach down to check his pulse. It’s strong and steady. Still he shows no sign of waking. At least a Grade 3 concussion; I’m 2 for 2 today. I swallow hard as I reach down and grasp his wrists. My body seems to erupt in fire as I strain to pull Kevin along the ground. I should have paid more attention to those body mechanics lectures! When moving heavy objects, push instead of pull to avoid throwing out your back, the knowledge teases me as flames shoot up my spine and down my leg.

Either Kevin is extraordinarily heavy or the adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me feeling a lot weaker than usual. I think I need to start going to the gym with Turk. Thankfully I only have to drag him a couple feet where I unceremoniously drape him over his brother’s chest to apply the needed pressure. Perhaps not the best plan ever, but best I could do in the 30 seconds I didn’t even really want to spend on it. At least now Michael will have a fighting chance until I can send help back for him. I can only hope that when he wakes up, Kevin figures out that he needs to keep pressure on the wound instead of coming after us. At any rate, my conscience is satisfied that the responsibility is now on him, and I can fully focus on Carla.

Well I would be able to, except I think I may have really hurt myself dragging Kevin. I can barely walk as I try to make my way back to her. Merciful Zeus it hurts! I swear that it feels like The Todd has given me an “ass five” and my skin is still burning from impact. I actually look back over my shoulder to make sure that I haven’t somehow inexplicably been set on fire.

Seeing a hole and a small splotch of red spreading on my pants, I have a moment of pure elation as I realize that I didn’t actually pee my pants, and that I haven’t been internally whining about insignificant pains. And then the realization sets in.

I’ve been shot. With the realization, the pain increases tenfold. When did that happen? My brow furrows as I try to piece it together. The gun went off while Michael was choking me, so that had to be when, but how could I have not known?

The adrenaline. Of course; it’s a natural analgesic. I suppose I should feel fortunate that at least the bullet struck the fleshiest part of my body, but really that’s only a small consolation. Especially considering that there’s no exit wound, which greatly increases my chances of infection if I don’t get the bullet removed quickly.

I can just see it now as Turk stands at my hospital bedside. “I’m sorry, dude, but your butt was infected,” he informs me solemnly. “I’m afraid we had to amputate.” As I look over my shoulder to check out the damage I’m startled to find that instead of being assless, I now have a ginormous butt.

“Prosthetic-ass five!” the Todd calls out as he gives it a really hard whack.

“Holy buckets of--!” I yelp as I come back to my senses. Okay, that’s it, I’ve got to get Carla, get back to the car, patch us both up enough to travel, and get to help NOW.

I crawl back over to her. She looks up at me, her eyes slightly glassy with pain. I need to immobilize her shoulder and arm as best I can before she moves to prevent any further tearing of muscles. My resources are extremely limited, but now isn’t the time for modesty, anyway, so I carefully shuck my pants, tucking the gun into the waistband of my smiley-face boxers.

I’m just glad I didn’t wear anything too embarrassing!

Thankful for once for the thin material, I rip the non-bloodstained pant-leg from my scrub pants and toss the rest aside. I fold the pant-leg a bit and then help her to sit up just enough that I can wrap it under her arm and around her shoulder. “This may hurt…” I warn her before I tighten it as much as I can without cutting off circulation. She squeeze her eyes shut and makes a high, thin noise, but is a whole lot more stoic than I’d be. I give her a few more moments to recover before asking, “If I help you up, think you can walk?” If not, we’re screwed. Fortunately, she nods. “Okay, let me do the work,” I carefully wrap my arm around her and pull her up, gritting my teeth against my own pain. Once she’s up, she wraps her good arm around my waist so we can lean on each other for the long cold trek back to the car.

“Careful, Bambi,” she murmurs as I stumble slightly, my leg still not responding quite right. I catch her looking at my butt, and wincing.

“I know, it’s a little pathetic, but there’s no reason to look like that,” I say as lightly as I can manage, hoping to get her to smile. Instead it seems to have the opposite effect. I cringe as she starts crying in earnest.

“I’m so sorry, Bambi!”

“I’m okay,” I assure her, pausing for a moment to give her a reassuring hug before we go any further.

“Really?”

“Really!” I kiss her forehead, frowning as I realize that she feels far cooler than she should.

“Please excuse m while I vomit,” Cox chimes in. “Not that this isn’t touching and all, but don’t you think you should ga-het awaaaaaay from the bad people who shot you?”

He’s right, of course. And imaginary. Damn I have to stop hearing these voices in my head. Even if they are fairly helpful.

I do my best not to lean on Carla too much as we lurch silently through the woods. Now that I’m up and moving more than a few steps at a time, I’m really starting to feel the pain in my feet. If I’d been smart, I would have used the rest of my pants to wrap them, but it’s really not worth going back for them.

If I’d been really smart, I would have not only used the spare pant leg to wrap my feet, but I’d also have stopped to grab the keys from whichever brother had them. Of course I don’t even think about that until we finally reach the car and I realize that we’re not so fortunate as to have the keys left in the ignition for us. While those would be worth going back for, it’s too risky a move. I may have a gun on my side, but I’m in no shape to fight if Kevin is awake, and I’m not sure I trust myself to actually shoot him if it came to that. So our best move is to bandage up and then get to a main road and try to flag down some help.

I help Carla to sit sideways in the car’s passenger seat, and then go rummaging for the first aid kit she’d grabbed back at the store, finding it tucked under the back seat. I pop it open and scan it quickly to find out what I have to work with.

Not much. The supplied band-aids are pretty much too small to be useful. Tweezers…somehow I don’t see them being terribly effective in removing a bullet. Not that I could do it myself anyway, nor could I imagine asking Carla to do it. Likewise, the triple anti-biotic and aspirin tablets are woefully inadequate for the situation, but I suppose they’re better than nothing. There’s some gauze and medical tape, some antiseptic wipes, and a tiny pair of scissors that will help a bit.

And now for something completely awkward! “I’m going to have to get your shirt off,” I warn Carla, brandishing the tiny scissors. “It’ll be a lot easier on you if…” She nods, giving me permission. I lean closer and begin trying to cut the fabric. The scissors are just barely sharp enough to cut through the fabric and so small that it’ll take forever to do it that way, so I cut just enough to get started, and then firmly grip each side and tear it open by hand, doing my best not to jar her injury.

“What the HELL are you doing to my woman?” I swear I hear Turk roaring. I half expect an old samurai sword to come swinging at my neck at any moment. When that doesn’t happen, I proceed, tearing the sleeve and away from the bad shoulder. Carla helps as much as she can, and seems far less embarrassed than I feel. I know it’s silly because I am, after all, a professional and it’s not like I haven’t seen Carla in a bra before. Still, it’s very different when I’m actually tearing clothes off of her. Not that there is anything even remotely sexual about what we’re doing.

“Damn, Bambi, you’re hot,” she murmurs in a low voice. I gape at her, thinking I can’t possibly be hearing her right. She smiles ever so slightly and I realize that I’m not doing anything to hide my shock. “You’re burning up,” she clarifies, her smile quickly vanishing again. Well…that would be an explanation for the fact that I’ve been feeling a bit chilled; I pretty much was passing it off to the fact that I was wandering around wearing only a pair of boxers, but a fever would make sense, too. That would hopefully also explain why her skin felt so cool to my touch. If not…the trauma could be causing her to go into shock. I have to keep a close eye on that.

“Not too close an eye,” Turk growls warningly and I flinch.

Maybe I can blame the voices on the fever, too. Dr. Cox snorts and rolls his eyes.

“I’ll be fine. Let’s just get patched up and then we’ll go for help.”

Since there are no sterile gloves, I unwrap the first antiseptic wipe and use it to clean my hands. Once they’re as clean as they’re going to get, I use a second wipe to gently clean the entry wound. Though she’s clearly trying not to let it show, I can see the pain etched in Carla’s face as I work. Satisfied that I’ve cleaned as well as I can, I tape some gauze into place. Half way there. I pause to wipe some of the sweat from her forehead.

“Say, Newbie, I think your patient is starting to look a little pale, there…” No. No she’s not. She’s fine. She has to be. She’s not going into shock because there’s nothing I can really do for her here! “Now’s not the time to panic, Eliza.”

“It’s the perfect time to panic!” I realize I’ve said it aloud but Carla doesn’t even acknowledge it. No. She can’t go into shock. Not now! It’s a catch-22. I know I have to clean and bandage her or her odds of infection go up, and with the wound so close to her heart, infection could prove fatal. On the other hand, if I tend to her I’m agitating the trauma and causing her to go into shock, which could prove fatal.

My hands shake slightly as I rip open the next antiseptic wipe and begin working quickly on the exit wound. I don’t take as much time to clean as I did the entry, but we have to get moving. I know I should at least clean my own wound, but there’s no time. I have to get Carla to help as fast as I can. I’ll take care of myself once we’re to the main road.

I grab my backpack from the back seat and shove the remainder of the first aide kit contents into the side pocket. Wait! My phone! I think I left it...YES! We’re going to be saved! I flip it open.

No service. Of course there’s no service. We’re in the middle of a wooded area, out in the middle of nowhere, in a car with no keys, and two potential killers after us. I knew I should have gone with Verizon! Damn Dead Zones…

I shove the phone back into my pack. I open up the large compartment, hoping to find my spare scrubs. There’s a lot of money--a lot more than I would have expected there to be from that convenience store--and my hospital ID badge, but it appears that my scrubs and my wallet are MIA. Damn. I zip the bag closed and sling it over my shoulders.

“Carla?” She doesn’t really respond other than for her head to tilt back a little, her eyes appear dull. I close my eyes as I place fingers against her pulse point. Tachycardic. No! God, this is my fault! I shouldn’t have bothered with Michael. He didn’t deserve it. I should have tended to Carla first. I have to get her to the main road. Fast. I’ve already wasted far too much time!

But what if Michael or Kevin comes after us? They have the car keys…they’d catch up fast. Or possibly run us down. I pull the gun from my waistband and walk to the other side of the car. I aim toward the front tire, squeeze my eyes shut, and pull the trigger. I almost drop the gun, but manage to keep hold. One down. I aim toward the rear tire and pull the trigger again, flinching as it goes off. Okay. They may still come after us, but that should at least slow them down considerably. I shove the gun back into my waistband and return to Carla.

“Carla?” I try to get her attention again. She only barely acknowledges me. “I’m going to pick you up,” I warn her, not even sure if she’s still understanding. I slide one arm under her knees and the other under her arms, gritting my teeth as I pull her against my body, doing my best not to jar her injury. Her head falls limply against my shoulder. “Hang on,” I plead with her. I wish we had a blanket or anything to try and keep her warm, but there’s nothing!

“Focus, Newbie.”

I know, I know! It’s just so hard!

Take a deep breath. One step at a time. Get to the main road. Flag down some help. One foot in front of the other.

I’m not even positive I’m going the right way, but I start walking. More like stumbling, but at least I’m moving. And after what seems like hours but is probably only minutes, like a miracle, I see what looks like an end to the woods, and a paved road just beyond that.

Almost safe. Almost safe. Almost safe.

It seems, though, that it just keeps getting farther away. And I’m getting so tired. I don’t know how much farther I can carry Carla, but there’s no way I’m going to leave her. Not even for a minute. My legs are starting to tremble from fatigue, but it’s not much farther. Almost safe.

By the time we finally reach the road, I’m ready to collapse. Past ready, really, but I’ve managed to get here on sheer willpower. Unfortunately, my reserves are depleted. I let out a frustrated scream as I look in both directions and see no one. Not one car.

Maybe I can just rest for a few minutes and then I’ll be ready to get moving again.

I fall to my knees at the edge of the pavement and barely keep myself from pitching forward and landing on Carla. Instead I manage to lay her down as gently as I can. I let my backpack fall from my shoulders and once again reach in to pull out my phone.

Still no service. I barely resist the urge to throw it away in frustration.

I’m so tired…I need to get help, but I just can’t get back up. There has to be something I can do.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and lay down beside Carla, then get a better idea. Body heat. Have to keep her warm. Human blanket. Maybe my fever can help her…I drape myself partially over her.

Please, somebody find us. I’m not sure when I started crying, but become suddenly aware that my cheeks are damp with tears.

“Don’t fall asleep, kiddo,” I hear Dr. Cox warning me, his voice unusually kind.

But I can’t help it. I’m so tired. And cold. I’m so…

Sleepy.

I close my eyes for just a moment.

And open them to see flashing lights above me.

Red and blue.

Blue and red.

Hands grip me and yank me harshly from Carla. I struggle to free myself from the grasping hands. No. I can’t let them hurt her. Can’t have come this far only to let them win. Have to protect her!

“Hold still, scumbag!”

“He’s…gun!” an unfamiliar voice barks and I become instantly aware of hands roughly pawing at me. The gun is gone. Someone’s grabbed it. A moment later I find myself flung face down against a cold wall. No. Not a wall. A cold car hood.

Red and blue lights.

Police car.

Help!

I smile in relief. We’re safe.

Except now someone is twisting my arms harshly behind my back.

“No. Wait.” I try to stop them. “I’m not…” I’m suddenly awake as I realize what it must have looked like. Nearly naked man lying on top of unconscious woman with shirt half torn off. She’s been shot, he has a gun. “No. It’s not what it--"

“Shut up!” a voice growls in my ear and I freeze at the unspoken threat.

“No you don’t underst--" My body is slammed against the car hood again and I suddenly am struggling just to breathe.

“Holy…! There’s a lot of money here, Will.” They’ve found my backpack. Filled with money. Maybe they won’t figure out the bag’s mine…”Got his ID it looks like.” Great, they know it’s mine. “A doctor? Yeah right. That’s gotta be fake. Contact Sacred Heart and see if they know a Dr. John Dorian.”

“Turk,” I gasp out. “Contact Dr. Christopher Turk. That’s his wife. Carla. His number’s in my phone. You have to help her.”

The cop pinning me to the car snorts. “Yeah. Don’t worry yourself about that, Nancy,” he sneers. “John Dorian, you have the right to remain silent.”

“Ambulance is two minutes out,” I hear a voice in the distance as the man standing over me continues telling me about my ‘rights’. I wince as I feel the cool metal of handcuffs being tightened on my wrists. I want to tell him I didn’t do anything wrong, but I know that’s not true.

“I shot him,” I hear myself confessing to the officer arresting me. “Back there. In the woods…”

“Ooooh no. You shouldn’t have said that,” I hear hospital lawyer Ted groaning. “Don’t say aaaaanything else. Unless you’re going to die. Do you think you’re going to die?” Quite possibly.

At this point, it might be the best possible outcome.

I become aware that the arresting officer is talking to me when he spins me around to face him. I see his lips moving, but can’t seem to hear him anymore. My brow furrows as I try to concentrate on his lips as if maybe I can read them. But I’ve never been good at that. My eyes widen as I see him reaching for me, clearly frustrated. He shoves me back against the car hood and my world explodes with a blinding pain.

I must have blacked out because the next thing I know my eyes are opening to a familiar sight. I’m lying on an exam table in a hospital emergency room. It’s not Sacred Heart, but the set up is quite similar. I have to find out about Carla. I have to know she’s okay.

I slide off the table only to find that my wrist is handcuffed to the side-rail and I can’t go anywhere anyway. Great. They still think I’m dangerous. That probably explains why I’m still in an Emergency Room instead of up in surgery getting the bullet removed from my ass. I know it’s not supposed to matter, but I know that, unless it’s an eminent death situation, dangerous criminals aren’t exactly priority patients. At least I can feel assured that crime victims are priorities, so they’re probably taking really good care of Carla.

“Where is he?” I hear a familiar voice demanding.

“Turk!” I call out, almost shaking with relief. “Turk, I’m over here!”

A few moments later the door to my exam room bursts open and Turk’s there. Oh, thank God! He’ll straighten everything out!

Except that he doesn’t look nearly as relieved to see me as I am to see him.

In fact he looks downright furious.

“You son of a bitch!” he bellows and I see his fist flying toward my face.

And I’m out.

And I’m out.-JD

My reflexes work faster than my brain and I catch JD as he’s going down hard.

If I’d had time to think, I would have just let him fall. Hell, if I’d had time to think, I would have hit him a few times before going for the knockout punch. But I didn’t think, and even after what he’s done my instincts tell me to protect him, like I always do. Watching out for JD has always been so ingrained in my nature that I wonder if I’ll ever be able to stop doing it. For Carla’s sake, I’ll have to. Even if what happened was caused by some sort of brain injury I can’t forgive him for hurting my baby like that.

It’s hard to imagine that just half an hour ago everything was normal. I’d finished my last surgery of the day and had stopped for a quick workout before heading over to JD’s when my cell started to sing ‘Rollin’ with My Homies’, earning me a look of disgust from Dr. Cox, the only other occupant of the weight room.

“Hey, V-Bear, whassup!?” I answered, a little surprised that he was calling. He was looking pretty sick when he left and I figured Carla would have put him to bed long ago. My baby gets all mother hen when someone needs looking after; she don’t mess around, you know what I’m sayin’? But then again, maybe they needed me to pick up a little somethin’-somethin’ or something.

Instead of hearing JD or even Carla’s voice, though, an unfamiliar one asked, “Is this Christopher Turk?”

“This is Dr. Turk,” I answered apprehensively. “Who is this?” I refrained from continuing to ask, “And what the h-ell are you doing with my best friend’s phone?”

“Dr. Turk, this is Officer Grant with the--"

“Officer?” I cut him off, my eyes widening. This couldn’t be good. “Is JD okay?”

“JD?”

“John Dorian. You’re using his phone. Is he okay?”

Dr. Cox set down his weights and pretended not to be interested though it was clear his curiosity was getting the better of him.

“I’m actually calling about Carla.”

This was clearly not good. “Carla?” I repeated anxiously as my heart rate skyrocketed. “Is she there? Is she okay? What happened?”

“Sir, I’m going to need for you to calm down.”

I took a deep breath. “Sorry. Is my wife…is Carla okay?” I tried to sound calm, though the tension had to be obvious in my voice. Dr. Cox even stopped pretending that he wasn’t listening and moved closer.

“I believe I’m with your wife, now, Sir.” He believes? He doesn’t know? “She’s being transported now to San DiFrangeles General. Can you meet us there?”

“SDF General? I-“ I licked my suddenly dry lips, trying to make sense of what was happening. SDF was all the way across town. Carla took the car. I was just planning to hop a bus or something to get to JD’s. The way the busses ran, it’d be at least a couple hours. That wasn’t good enough. What if she was dying? No. I can’t jump to conclusions. “I’ll be there,” I said more to assure myself than the officer. “What happened? Is JD with her? Are they okay?”

“I’m afraid I can’t release that information over the phone.”

In that moment, I was sure that they were dead. There’d been some sort of car accident and they were both dead! That’s why they wanted me to meet them at the hospital. They needed me to identify the bodies.

I was dimly aware of Dr. Cox taking the phone from me and sitting me down on the bench, but everything else ceased to exist. My wife and my best friend were gone. How was I supposed to…? How was I supposed to tell Izzy? She was far too young to understand what was happening! She was gonna grow up without her mama; she probably wouldn’t have any memories of Carla at all! How was I supposed to raise her alone?

Dan. Oh, God, I needed to call Dan. Or I‘d have to make him a cake. That’s what they did in their family, so it’s what I should do. But I don’t know how to bake cakes. Carla’s the one who…but she’s--

“Gandhi!” Dr. Cox snapped and I realized that he’d been trying unsuccessfully to get my attention. Once he saw me looking at him, he continued, “Get up, we’ve got to go.” We? At my look of confusion he gave a little snort. “You honestly think you could get yourself over to SDF right now? Now c’mon. I know it’s a challenge but you need to be strong. Carla needs you right now.”

She needed me? But she was dead.

“Gandhi!” I jerked as a hand slapped me across the face. I stared up at Dr. Cox. “Focus. Now’s not the time to fall apart.”

It was exactly the time to fall apart, but I nodded anyway and let him lead me out to his car.

“Did they…?” I tried to ask him if they’d said how it happened, but I couldn’t get the words out.

“They wouldn’t tell me anything. Just that she was being taken to SDF and that we should meet them there,” he answered as he turned the key in the ignition. He looked like he wanted to say something more, something comforting perhaps. But there’s one thing that Dr. Cox does not do. He doesn’t lie to give people false hope. So instead, he turned on the radio to let it keep me company so he wouldn’t have to try to keep me from going crazy.

It was after the third song, while we were stuck in traffic on the interstate, that the news came on. “I’m Jill Greene and I’m here live with news on the apparent Stop-n-Shop kidnapping. In case you’re just tuning in, earlier this afternoon one of the store’s clerks reported that a gunman held up the store on Auckland Avenue and took the store clerk, his store manager, and an unidentified female hostage.”

The Stop-N-Shop on Auckland was the little convenience store a few blocks from Sacred Heart. Huh.

“I’m here now with the store clerk of the Stop-n-Shop. What a harrowing ordeal! How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Jill. A little shaken up, but I’m okay.”

“Define ‘okay’,” Cox muttered. He glanced at me. “I’ve been to that hole-in-the-wall. The kid’s a moron.” They didn’t even identify the guy, how’d he know that? At my questioning look, Cox scoffs, “Everyone who works there is a moron.”

I nodded knowingly, though I wasn’t really paying that much attention as the guy started regaling his tale.

“And then I tried to wrestle the gun away from him and I totally would have except my asthma was totally acting up…”

“Of course it totally was,” Dr. Cox retorted, clearly not buying the kid’s account. I smiled faintly before closing my eyes and resting my head against the cold window while the guy on the radio continued boasting of his heroic encounter with a crazed gunman.

“We have gotten word that a suspect has been taken into custody and the hostages have been recovered by SDFPD. They are reportedly being taken to an area hospital. Their names and conditions are not being released at this time,” Jill Greene updated the story.

It wasn’t until the mention of the SDFPD that I really took note of the story. When I did, though, I rewound it in my head and played it over again. Unidentified female hostage? That couldn’t be Carla. Why would she be at the Stop-n-Shop? She usually avoided that place like the plague. Besides, if Carla was there, JD would be, too, and there was no mention of him. Nah. It was nothing. It was just a coincidence that an unidentified female was taken hostage from a store only a few blocks from Sacred Heart and had just been recovered by police and was being taken to a local hospital like SDFG. That couldn’t have been why the police called me to meet me there. I can’t think of any reason Carla would have been there without JD…

“In a strange twist,” the radio newswoman continued her story, “according to an unconfirmed report, the gunman may possibly be a doctor from near-by Sacred Heart Hospital,” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, “and may have actually treated the injuries he inflicted on his victims there at the scene before the police arrived.”

I stared at the radio in disbelief. That could not possibly have been JD. Could it? “No way,” I answered my own question.

Dr. Cox let out an amused puff and I caught him glancing at me sidelong.

“The SDFPD expects to make an official statement later this evening,” the reporter concluded her story and went on to a new one. My brain wouldn’t leave it alone, though. The pieces totally fit together. Well, except for the one where JD might possibly be a crazed gunman.

Then again, he had hit his head and had a concussion. Maybe we should have made sure there wasn’t more than that going on. Rage can actually be a symptom of damage to the cerebral cortex. Good God, what if JD…?

“Oh-ho!” Cox crowed. “Please, oh please, tell me. You actually think that Clarice did this!” His face had lit up as though it were Christmas morning.

“No!” I blurted. “I mean, no.” I let out a snort, though it was somewhat forced. “C’mon, JD?” I laughed uncomfortably. Cuz what if he had? They said it was a doctor from Sacred Heart. “Besides, where would he get a gun?”

“Well, he did say someone hit him with one earlier. Maybe he found it and picked it up?” Cox egged me on. I frowned. That was possible. Maybe. No. It didn’t make sense. I was told that the janitor found him unconscious, and there was always someone with him after that point, so when would he have picked it up? “Or maybe the janitor found it with him and gave it to him,” Cox suggested. Now that wasn’t as far-fetched as it might seem. The janitor’s weird, and just a little creepy. Yeah, I could actually see that. But then where would JD have put it? “I mean he might’ve had it stashed in his pants. I didn’t check his pants. Did you?” Now I know Cox is totally messing with me, but…what if? “You do! You think he did it!”

“No. But…JD did hit his head,” I started to justify why it could possibly have been JD. Even though it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been!

“Brain damage!!” Dr. Cox sang merrily. “Ding ding ding…”

“Shut up,” I mumbled and went back to looking out the window. I was too worried to handle Cox’s torment.

“Oh, come on, Gandhi!”

I ignored him, closing my eyes and resting my forehead against the cool glass.

I was sort of hoping that once we reached the hospital, Cox would just drop me off and go on his way, but I couldn’t be so lucky. I know that he was only being Cox, though, and that, despite his almost giddy teasing, he was almost as worried as I was. He parked in the Emergency lot and escorted me into the building.

I was about to stop at the information desk, but Cox stopped me and nodded toward where a couple police officers were talking to a doctor. Suddenly all I wanted to do was turn around and leave. I couldn’t handle this. What if she was dead? Or what if she was like paralyzed or something? Cox gave me a little prod and gave me a pointed look. He didn’t have to say it; I knew what he was thinking. It was time to man up and go find out what happened. Good news or bad, I had to find out what I was dealing with. I headed over to the group.

“Excuse me,” I cut into their conversation. “I’m Dr. Turk. Someone called me about my wife Carla. She was brought here?” I knew I was rambling just a little bit, but they all took it in stride.

“Yes, Dr. Turk. I’m Dr. Silver, I tended your wife in the ER,” the doctor introduced himself. “Why don’t you come with me?” I looked helplessly at Dr. Cox and followed Dr. Silver toward one of the private consult rooms. Just because we were going to the consult room didn’t mean it was bad news, I reminded myself, though I would have felt a whole lot better if he’d at least given me some sort of sign that my baby was okay. Cox looked at me questioningly and I nodded, wanting the moral support.

After Cox and Silver made their introductions and we were all seated in the privacy area, Dr. Silver got right to the point. “Your wife was brought in with a gunshot wound to her shoulder,” he began his explanation. Relief washed over me as he continued on to tell me that she was stabilized in the ER and had briefly gained consciousness before going into surgery. She’d been alert and aware of her surroundings. I let out a breath I wasn’t even aware that I was holding at that revelation. I barely listened as Silver explained in detail what the surgeons were doing to repair the damage. None of that really mattered; Carla was going to be okay. I could get the rest of the details later. It was clear that Dr. Cox was asking all the questions I probably should be, but I was just so relieved. She was alive and she was going to be fine.

It wasn’t until after Silver had escorted us back out of the consult room and taken his leave that I realized that there was still a major question that nobody had answered. “What about JD?” Cox looked at me for a moment, and then nodded toward the police officers that were still lurking near the triage station.

“Is one of you Officer Grant?” I asked as we approached them. When one of them stepped forward, I turned my attention to him. “I’m Dr. Turk. You called me earlier from my friend’s phone--”

“Your friend?” the cop sneered. Cox and I exchanged uneasy glances. “Yeah, some friend you got there. He shot your wife.”

I know I cringed when he said the words. I’d thought them, but to have someone else actually say it made it far less believable again. “I’m sure there’s some sort of mistake, you see he was sick and she was taking him home,” I started to defend JD.

“No mistake,” Officer Grant contradicted. “He admitted it. And we have a witness that’s confirmed it.”

What?

Dr. Cox thumbed his nose and his face contorted into an exaggerated expression of disbelief. “You’re telling us that Priscil--that John Dorian confessed to shooting Carla.” His voice was strained and it was clear that he was demonstrating great restraint in not antagonizing the officer. “John Dorian. About yay high, dark hair, incredibly annoying…”

“Yeah. That’s the guy.”

“There’s gotta be a mistake,” I tried once again. “He…he’s sick today, she was taking him home. Maybe he didn’t know what he was saying.”

Officer Grant looked slightly uncomfortable, but he shook his head firmly. He exchanged glances with his partner. “Look…I really shouldn’t be tellin’ you this, but when we got there, he was…well…” he looked really sympathetic.

Dr. Cox folded his arms across his chest and looked utterly disgusted, but remained silent.

“What?” I prompted.

“Your friend,” Grant ground out the word sarcastically, “robbed a store, shot two people and tried to rape your wife.”

What? My mind froze. There was…no response to that. I couldn’t conceive of it, and I couldn’t possibly string together a coherent thought, let alone voice one.

Dr. Cox was staring at Officer Grant as though the man had grown an extra head, and I’m sure my expression couldn’t have been much different. “Now wait. Newbie wouldn’t know what to do with a gun if he had the manual in front of him. And he certainly wouldn’t--" he started to angrily voice his doubt but Officer Grant cut him off.

“He had the gun on her,” the officer insisted defensively, his voice rising to match Cox’s intensity. “Hell, it’s lucky we got there when we did. Bastard had her shirt torn off and was on top of her, pinning her down.”

What?! I felt a rage building in me as he described how JD was caught literally pants down. It was crazy, and…I didn’t want to believe it, but the case the officer was building as he continued with what he’d seen was pretty strong. JD was caught practically naked on top of my wife and was tearing off her clothes. When confronted, he’d confessed to the shooting, and after he’d passed out, the police had confirmed it testing his hands and chest for gunshot residue.

I was dimly aware that Cox was still trying to convince them that they were wrong, and further that they were incompetent idiots if they believed that JD did this, but…he did it. He hurt my baby.

“Where is he?”

The officers exchanged glances and seemed to realize that they’d definitely revealed too much. Grant’s partner shook his head and undoubtedly they weren’t about tell me where my former friend was located. Fortunately they didn’t have to.

“Turk! Turk, I’m over here!” I heard JD calling me from inside one of the exam rooms.

The goofy smile on his face when I burst into the room makes me fly into an almost blind rage. How dare he smile about what he’s done? “You son of a bitch!” I don’t remember crossing the room or hitting him. My reflexes work faster than my brain and I catch JD as he’s going down hard.

Moments later I find myself being swarmed by the officers, a nurse, and Dr. Cox, who immediately takes control of the situation, taking JD’s dead weight from my arms. I feel only slightly guilty as JD makes a pained whimper as he comes to. I watch, transfixed, as the nurse helps Cox get JD back onto the bed, a handcuff connecting JD’s wrist to the side rail preventing them from rolling him onto his back. I frown as JD’s hospital gown falls open and reveals several bruises as well as a large bandage on his backside. Cox hastily pulls a sheet over him to protect his dignity. What happened to him?

Not that I care.

Except, of course I do. Old habits die hard. Especially when I see tears rolling silently down my best f--former best friend’s face. In all the years that I’ve known him, I can’t think of a single time he’s actually cried, not even the times he’s had damn good reason. Make no mistake, he’s an emotional guy. He just doesn’t like to show that particular emotion in front of anyone.

In an unusual show of kindness, Cox gently wipes away the tears as well as the sweat that has broken out on JD’s forehead. His face looks unusually flush. Noticing that I’m watching, Cox steps into my line of sight and motions angrily for me to get out.

Officer Grant and his partner usher me out of the exam room while the nurse and Cox tend to JD. “Considering…everything, we’re gonna pretend that didn’t just happen,” Grant tells me. The warning not to do anything more hangs unspoken in the air.

He doesn’t have to worry. The initial rage has worn off and I’m thinking a little clearer. I know what happened wasn’t entirely JD’s fault. He wouldn’t ever hurt Carla on purpose. I know that. We really should have made sure he was really okay before releasing him from Sacred Heart. Even so, I don’t know that I’ll ever really be able to completely forgive him. And no amount of anger is an excuse for what he tried to do. There’s no way I can ever ask Carla to forgive him, or even face him again. So I have to get used to the idea that me and JD are done.

I sink down into one of the waiting room chairs, my depression and worry completely exhausting me. What is taking so long? Shouldn’t Carla be out of surgery already? It took Cox and I quite a while to get here, and it didn’t sound like the surgery itself should be all that complicated. She’d have quite a lot of physical therapy ahead of her, but the surgery was fairly minimal. What’s taking them so long?

I look up as Cox emerges from the exam room. I see him drop what looks like JD’s cell phone into his pocket. He reaches up and plucks JD’s chart from the wall hang and begins skimming over it. He shakes his head and lets out a small huff before glancing over at me, his lips curving into a grim mockery of a smile. That can’t be good.

“You can’t be looking at that!” the nurse snaps as she yanks the chart from his hands. She starts to put it back, but changes her mind and tucks it under her arm, giving Cox a suspicious look.

“Why is this man not yet in surgery?” he demands. Surgery? What the…? Why does JD need surgery?

I silently berate myself for not even being able to go five minutes without worrying about him. I have to stop it.

I tune Cox out as he continues some sort of heads-will-roll rant. I think I overhear him saying something about untreated infections and a lawsuit and within a few minutes a surgical team is there whisking JD off to do whatever it is they need to do.

Cox thumbs his nose and crosses his arms, glaring after them for a few moments before wandering back over to me. He doesn’t offer to tell me what he saw on the chart, and I’m not going to ask. I don’t want to know. The way Cox silently stares at me, studying me, makes me even more uncomfortable.

“You really think he did it, don’t you,” Cox finally speaks.

I don’t answer, but that seems to give Cox his answer anyway. He lets out a disbelieving huff as he reaches out and cuffs--

--him in the back of the head.

“Ow!” Gandhi complains as he reaches up to rub his shiny head.

“You know, I’ve always had my doubts about you,” I inform him, and wait until he’s opening his mouth to protest so that I can cut him off effectively. “I was beginning to think maybe--just maybe--I had you pegged wrong. I mean you always seem like you could be a pretty decent guy. But don’t get too excited here, Gandhi, I’m not saying I’d ever invite you over for Thanksgiving dinner or anything, but you’ve got a good foundation. You went to all the right schools, earned fair enough grades to get through without being good enough to qualify as a loser with no life. You’re black, so you’ve got that built in ‘cool’ factor. You play a pretty so-so game of basketball…” I cut him off as he once again tries to protest. “You somehow got Carla to marry you, and make no mistake she is the fa-har better half but you seem like you could be a good guy. But I’ve had my doubts.” His brow furrows as he looks up at me. “Now don’t get me wrong, normally I frown on beating on women, but in Darla’s case I’d be there in the front row cheering you on. Most days I’d probably even sell tickets and hock stuff at the concession stand.” It shouldn’t surprise me that he doesn’t seem to know where I’m going with this. I take pity on him after heaving a big sigh to let him know that he’s a moron. “That said, for some unexplainable reason you took him as your B-F-F, and that means for whatever god-knows-what reason, you chose him to be your friend forever.” His mouth opens again and I hold up my hand to stop him. “Bup-bup-bup! Look, Gandhi. I know Newbie isn’t a perfect friend, and lord knows you could have chosen better, but then you haven’t always lived up to your ‘best friend’ end of the bargain, either.”

“He shot my wife!” Gandhi finally gets the guts to cut me off. “And he tried to…he…”

I let out a disgusted growl and take another swipe at the back of his head, though this time he sees it coming and ducks. “Do you honestly believe he’d do that? Think about it, Gandhi.”

“But he admitted it!”

I rub my temple, hoping it will alleviate my headache. I knew I shouldn’t get involved in this unfolding drama between the two lovebirds. “Don’t you think you at least owe it to him to get the story from him before you take the word of those morons over there?” He scowls in answer and folds his arms across his chest as if to cut off any further discussion of the matter. I will admit that the idiots talked a good case with their talk of gun residue and confessions. If they were talking about just about anyone but Sally, I’d possibly believe them, too. But I do know that Olivia wouldn’t hurt a fly, or if he did, he’d be crying about it for days.

As for what the officers told us about catching him in the act of attempting to rape Carla? And holding up a store? Taking into account that it’s Newbie we’re talking about, and that he has the tendency to get caught in completely insane situations on pretty much a weekly (if not daily) basis, I’m guessing that it’s absolutely nothing like what it looked like and there will be some totally innocent explanation. After all these years, how can Gandhi not know that? When whatever this misunderstanding is comes to light, Gandhi is going to hate himself for what he’s done, especially when he finds out that his wife wasn’t the only one who was shot.

All in all, if it weren’t for the fact that two of our own were hurt, it would make for a very entertaining evening. Well also excepting the fact that waiting rooms are incredibly boring.

I know when Dr. Moronic makes an appearance to let Gandhi know that his wife is out of recovery that I should give him a few minutes to see her alone, but damned if I am going to stay another minute in the torture room. I swear they must have an endless loop tape of “Judge Judy” reruns somewhere that they pipe into these rooms.

As it turns out, we’re not even her first visitors. Officer Dumbass is standing in the doorway. For a moment I think he’s going to prevent us from entering and prepare to give him a verbal beat down, but he seems to reconsider and steps aside to allow us entrance. As it turns out, Officer Dumbasser is seated in the visitor chair nearest the bed and seems to be there to grill her for information.

“Hey, baby,” Gandhi greets his wife as he carefully leans over her to give her a kiss. A much too long kiss, that involves a bit more tongue than the situation really calls for. I mean we all are glad she’s going to be okay, but they’re not alone and if they don’t stop soon, I may actually have to vomit.

When he finally lets her up for air, I hear Carla murmuring, “Oh, baby, I was so scared…”

“It’s hard to imagine you ever being scared,” I greet as I pull up a couple more visitor chairs for Gandhi and I. As he takes her hand and drops into one of them I lean over and give her a small peck (see that’s how it’s done!) on the cheek. “Glad you’re still with us.” She smiles, though her eyes are still a bit misty.

Officer Dumbasser clears his throat to get our attention. I roll my eyes, but quietly take my seat. “You were about to tell me what you can remember about what happened,” he prompts Carla, who nods slightly, and then appears to become lost in thought.

After a few moments her eyes widen and she looks wildly over at us. “Bambi! Where’s Bambi?”

“He’s being taken care of,” Gandhi tells her, rubbing her hand gently. Apparently Carla doesn’t catch the edge to his voice, and relaxes just a little bit, though she still looks quite distressed. I raise an eyebrow, but say nothing.

“We talked with the store clerk and he told us about some of it, but we really need to get a statement from you,” Dumbasser tries again.

Carla nods slightly again and turns her head toward him. After a few moments she closes her eyes and I notice that she’s shaking a little bit. Gandhi must, too, because he reaches out and pulls her blanket up a little bit.

“I know this must be hard for you, Ms. Turk,” Dumbasser recites a line he’s clearly learned to speak by rote.

“Did you catch them?” she asks softly, pleadingly. Ha! Them, not him. I knew it. I decide to keep my gloating to myself for the moment, but I give Gandhi a knowing look. He doesn’t look my way at all.

“Yeah, we got him,” Dumbasser provides further proof he’s an idiot, but neither Carla nor her clueless husband seem to catch the change in pronoun. I know I should probably speak up to make sure this gets clarified, but decide to let it play out for my own amusement. I have some time to kill and anything is better than going back to the torture room until Clarissa is out of surgery.

“We shouldn’t have even been there, but Bambi was sick and I thought I’d pick up something to help settle his tummy,” Carla started to explain. She really is a mother hen. And I do have to hide my amusement as she continually refers to Lois as ‘Bambi’ and Dumbasser doesn’t even think to ask her who that is. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he figures out he got it all wrong. Though that won’t be nearly as priceless as Gandhi’s.

“And then this guy comes in and he’s all showing his gun around, and telling us all to get down or he’s going to shoot us,” she continues her story. “But he’s mostly okay until he’s about to leave and sees that there’s a cop sitting outside.”

I can’t help but wonder why Gandhi isn’t yet figuring out that his boyfriend has been unjustly blamed. At least if he has figured it out, he’s not showing it. Then again, it doesn’t look like he’s really paying much attention to what she’s saying. He’s just sitting there rubbing her hand and playing the concerned husband.

At one point Dumbass interrupts Carla to ask about the store clerk’s heroic attempt to disable the robber. She looks confused for a moment, but then shakes her head. “No. That was Bambi. The clerk fainted and was unconscious. But Bambi hit the guy and knocked him out.”

I’m just impressed that apparently Ingrid has a mean right hook, but Gandhi only scowls again and I can just imagine that he’s now thinking that this must be when Newbie got the gun.

“So the robber was knocked unconscious?” Dumbasser looks up from his notes in surprise. “Why didn’t you…?” he stops the question and looks apologetic. “I’m sorry. Why don’t you go on? What happened after um…‘Bambi’ knocked out the robber?”

Carla’s expression darkens and she looks down at her hands. “We thought it was over,” she murmurs softly. “But then…” She looks even more upset. “He picked up the gun.”

After a few moments it becomes clear that she isn’t going to continue without prompting, so Dumbasser does it. “Your…friend picked up the gun?” he tries to clarify.

Carla looks up, startled. “No,” she shakes her head, clearly confused why he’d think that. Oh, this is going to be good. “The store manager,” she says, surprising even me a little bit. I find myself forgetting all about Gandhi’s looming downfall as she recounts how they were forced into the car and later how their captors beat Joanne and then forced them both into the car trunk. “I was so scared,” she admits again. “But Bambi…he was so brave. You’d be so proud of him, baby,” she looks at Gandhi a look that can only be described as one of motherly pride. Normally I’d be thoroughly disgusted by it, but under the circumstances I can only barely hide the grin as Gandhi shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “He told me that when we got out he’d distract them and that I should run.” Carla continues singing Newbie praises as she regales how he realized they were being poisoned by carbon monoxide. I’m impressed with her, too, as she explains how she tried to draw attention to their plight by knocking out the tail light and trying to wave at other cars. I think I may have seen that on Oprah once…

“We did get a report about that,” Dumbasser acknowledges. “That’s why we were searching the area, but we didn’t know where to find you. So then what happened?”

I listen intently as again she continues her tale. I feel a little bit guilty myself as she mentions how they were forced to walk through the woods. That explains the lacerations on Newbie’s feet. I’m still wearing his shoes. Given I wouldn’t be if he hadn’t yarped on mine. Still my guilt is nothing to what Gandhi is displaying as she tells how they were forced to kneel and were so close to being executed when JD once again proved his bravery by trying to fight back.

“He told me to run,” she relates to us, her eyes misting again. “But I…I grabbed the gun.”

I lean forward in my chair, completely surprised by this new twist.

“And Michael was choking him. I could see him struggling and I could tell he couldn’t breathe!” she continues her voice rising as she gets even more distressed. “I…” she looks helplessly at me but seems to not be able to get the next part out.

“It’s okay, baby,” Gandhi assures her, reaching out to wipe away the tears that are starting to roll down her cheek.

“No, it’s not!” she begins to sob in earnest.

“We can take a break if you want,” Dumbass suggests, but Carla shakes her head.

“No. I’m okay. It’s just...” she squeezes her eyes shut. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s okay, baby,” Gandhi repeats, at a loss as to how to comfort her. He glances at me, his expression almost as helpless as hers. What does he expect me to do?

“No! You don’t understand!” she cries out in anguish. “I…” Her eyes open and for a moment she appears fearful as she glances first toward Dumbasser, then gazes longer at Gandhi before finally settling her look on me. “I…” She seems to find me the easiest to look at, though it’s still obvious that she’s having trouble with what she wants to say. I offer her a small reassuring smile, and that’s when she just blurts it out. “I shot Bambi!”

“Oh-ho!” I crow before I can think to stop myself. “I so did no-ought see that coming. Oh, Gandhi, how you must be feeling about now!” I find a malicious glee in this that I know I should feel bad about, but I just can’t. At least I can’t until I look back at Carla, and then I sober quickly, the grin immediately vanishing from both my face and my mood.

At the same time, Gandhi drops her hand as if it’s burning his skin and I can see the stricken look on her face at both of our reactions. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to! Michael was choking him and he couldn’t breathe and I was trying to help, but they rolled at the last second and--"

“Carla, it’s okay! Gandhi forces himself to focus on her again, though I think I can actually feel the guilt radiating off of him.

“I shot Bambi,” she repeats, her voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “How is that okay? He tries to save my life and I shoot him?”

The Dumbass twins exchange glances and I can tell they’re both starting to get a bad feeling about where this is going. It’s about time everyone’s starting to get the picture!

“Is that why he shot you?” Dumbasser asks weakly. Or maybe they’re not.

Carla stares dumbly at him. Not that I blame her, it’s an incredibly dumb question. “No. I don’t think he even meant to shoot me. He was just trying to get the gun and I was so upset and…it just went off.”

“So he shot you by accident, then?” Dumbass tries to clarify, still stubbornly clinging to the idea that JD is guilty even though it should be crystal clear that he’s not. I want to scream at their incompetence. Evidently, so is Carla.

“I guess,” she answers slowly, her voice taking on a slightly angry tone. She must be starting to realize what has gone on while she’s been in surgery. She’s stopped crying and is struggling to sit up a little bit. Gandhi gets to his feet and tries to help her. I frown as her face contorts with pain. It’s time to put this to rest so that she can as well.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I cut the officer off before he can continue his questioning. “I think there’s something you rea-heally need to clarify here, Carla.” Everyone looks at me and I can’t help but beam just a little bit at the fact that none of them have put the puzzle pieces together yet. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell us all who shot you. No, no…wait for it…” I hold up my hand, glancing at the officers than settling my sights on Gandhi. “Okay now go,” I point toward Carla.

“What do you mean who sh--?”

“Bup!” I cut her off. “You’re going to ruin my moment,” I add and then motion for her to try again.

“Kevin. Kevin shot me.”

And there it is. The look of complete and utter self-loathing I’ve been waiting for. I feel like I’m glowing. Am I glowing? I actually think I have tears in the corners of my eyes.

It’s a good thing that there’s a chair directly behind Gandhi or he’d be sprawled out on the floor instead of simply dropping into it. His jaw has dropped and he looks completely devastated. As he should! “But…what about…?” he starts, looking suddenly lost.

“What?” Carla looks around, alarmed at everyone’s reaction.

“You see, Carla,” I decide to let her in on the ‘joke’. “These idiots here all seem to have it in their heads that JD is the one who shot you.”

“What?!”

“Oh-ho. It gets even better than that,” I continue, though I do feel a bit cruel when I see how upset she is. She really should be resting, not getting all worked up. Still, I can’t help myself from wanting to twist the knife just a little bit more. “Why don’t you tell us what happened next?”

I sit back and just listen as she angrily recounts the rest of the story to the three idiots, from how JD--still recovering from nearly being strangled to death and with a bullet in his ass, no less--managed to take out the first captor, got the gun, and shot the second one. Each bit of the story she tells, Gandhi sinks just a little bit lower in his chair. By the time she mentions when JD tore her shirt open so that he could bandage her up, I’m surprised that he hasn’t slithered all the way to the floor.

“What did you think happened?” she asks, her voice no longer weak as she looks heatedly from one occupant of the room to the next. Forget mother hen, she’s more like a mama tiger defending her cub.

Gandhi looks so ashamed and miserable that I almost pity him.

“Well?” she demands.

“Well, ma’am,” Dumbasser sounds quite contrite. “When we found you...” He looks to his partner, but the other man has suddenly found something out in the hall to be quite interesting. I peek out and see another officer standing in front of the room across the hall. It’s probably JD’s room, and that’s probably Officer Dumbassiest, the way things are going.

“What happened when you found us?” Carla’s voice is slightly on the shrill side.

“You see, he was um…pretty much naked. And your shirt was ripped. And he was on top of you…”

I can see the exact moment when Carla realizes what’s happened. She looks wide eyed from the officer to Gandhi. Her eyes narrow. “What did you do?” she demands.

My work here is done, so I decide to give them a moment of privacy and get up to wander across the hall to see how JD’s surgery went. Officer Dumbassiest doesn’t even question it as I pluck the chart from the bottom shelf of the wall hang.

It’s not JD’s, though, I realize as I glance at it. Apparently there’s more than one jailbird in house today!

“Hey!” I look up and see the same nurse who caught me with a chart earlier. What? Does she have some sort of radar? I see that she still has a chart with her and wonder briefly if it’s JD’s. I hold up my hands as if in surrender, but she snatches the chart from me. “I don’t care if you’re a doctor. You’re not a doctor at this hospital,” she chides me. “I catch you doing this one more time and I’ll have Officer Harold here escort you out,” she warns. She drops the chart into the top shelf. I almost correct her, but decide against it. There’s only one patient in the room anyway, so it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out which bed he’s in. Then again this is SDFG we’re talking about. I should probably correct her. But I don’t.

Instead I wander back into the room where now Carla is pointing her finger at Gandhi and rapidly cussing him out in Spanish. Now there’s the Carla I know and love. The officers look majorly uncomfortable, as they should, since I’m pretty sure they’re next.

“Now you are going to go find Bambi and apologize until you are blue in the face,” she eventually sums up her rather impressive rant a few minutes later. Gandhi nods meekly and slinks out of the room like the rat he’s been acting like.

Then Carla turn her wrath on Dumbasser, her eyes wild with fury, her finger poking toward him angrily, “And you are going to go do whatever you have to do to make sure he’s cleared of all charges,” she grinds out the word. “And you better not have hurt a single hair on his head! I can’t believe you arrest Bambi and let the real creep just walk on out of here!” She begins swearing again.

“We’ll get him,” the Dumbasser lamely tries to appease her. “It’s just that…the clerk didn’t say anything about him being involved and the way it looked…” At her warning look, he trails off, looking sufficiently scolded.

As soon as they have her sign her statement, the officers quickly scurry off before she can start dressing them down again. As soon as they’re gone, she instantly deflates, her energy completely sapped. I tactfully ignore the way her eyes mist over again and sit in the chair next to her. She smiles weakly as I reach out and take her hand. “I can’t believe you’re the one who was defending him.” Neither can I. “I’m sorry, I’m just so tired,” she apologizes as her eyes fight to close.

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “Go ahead and get some rest.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” she admits.

“I’ll stay until Gandhi’s back.” She rolls her eyes at the nickname, but the corners of her lips still curl upward.

“Promise me you’ll watch out for Bambi,” she murmurs.

I actually have to force myself to growl, a little bit, and she opens one eye just a little bit. “I promise I’ll watch out for JD.”

At that her eyes both open to half-mast and she smiles wider. “You called him JD!” she says, sounding both teasing and proud.

I blink. Damn. I did. I’ve even been thinking of him by name. When did that happen?

I don’t have time to really consider when a cell phone begins to sing, “Obscene Phone Caller”. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the phone I picked up down in the ER. JD’s phone. I pull it from my pocket and look at the caller ID. SDF Police Department. I better answer it.

I regret it when I do, frowning as I listen to what the officer on the other end has to say. God. I really don’t think this day can possibly get any worse for JD.

But then, of course, it does.

“Uh…Officer?” I hear Gandhi addressing the guy keeping guard across the hall.

“Yes?”

“I was told that John Dorian was supposed to be in this room right now…”

“Right,” the officer confirms.

“I hate to tell you this, but that…in there. That ain’t JD.”

To borrow a phrase from one of my more annoying colleagues:

Frick!