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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.