Chapter 4: Hands Off the Wound

"Pull over," I told Ollie through the partition, "and I'll tell you what's wrong with him."

"He's fine, Doc," Ollie said from the front.

"He's coughing blood."

The car went silent.

Jude shut his eyes.

"It was a nosebleed," he said.

"Mr. Kane. Without argument."

I heard Ollie breathe out.

"Take us home," Jude said finally. "She's the nurse."

At the loft I put him on the long couch by the window and went to my bag.

Bree had slipped me a plastic sack of IV antibiotics and saline from the ER that afternoon.

She'd signed it out as wastage and told me never to ask her what she'd written.

I hung the bag on a floor lamp and found a vein in the crook of his elbow on the first try.

"You do that like you've done it ten thousand times," he said.

"Eleven thousand. Hold still."

His skin was burning.

The thermometer said 102.4, and my stomach turned over.

"How long have you run a fever?"

"Since the shot."

"Five weeks."

"On and off."

"And you didn't think this was worth mentioning to a nurse."

"I thought it was worth mentioning to the right one."

I opened my mouth, and shut it again.

I pressed my stethoscope against his chest, and he stared at the ceiling while I listened.

The left side sounded wrong, wet and crackling.

Under it, his heart ran fast and a little uneven.

"You need a hospital," I said.

"No."

"You need a surgeon."

"I have one."

"Then why is he letting this happen?"

He didn't answer.

I wrapped his wound, taped it down, and sat on the coffee table to watch the drip.

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