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“The police did take your fingerprint for exclusion purposes, didn’t they?”
I shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out if your JD-by-mail program was worth it.” Time to get serious—very serious. The sweat already beading under my scrubs turned cold. I braced myself. “The preliminary lab results are back.”
Davis sat up on the bed. My demeanor must have clued him in that the news wasn’t great, because he looked up at me with that little-boy fear in his blue eyes.
I had delivered hard news before as a doctor—just last week, actually—but his eyes still tugged at my heart. I pulled the stool up to look directly into his eyes. When that didn’t feel like enough, I held out my hand and he gripped my fingers. I could only hope the thick rubber glove was close enough to a human touch to keep us both grounded for this news. “It looks like the letter contained anthrax.”
He blinked for a long minute. “Real—real anthrax.”
“Yes. But anthrax is highly traceable, so we should definitely be able to figure out where it came from.”
“Which lab, you mean.” He sighed, hollow from his eyes on in.
My conversation with Natalie this morning echoed back to me. Surely his own brother, partially and indirectly responsible for this, would want to know. Especially if the worst was still a possibility.
“I’ve got a treatment plan for you,” I said gently. “I know you already know a lot about anthrax.”
“As a public health threat. Not a personal health threat.” He frowned at me—at my suit. “Anthrax isn’t transmissible person-to-person.”
“I know, but we have to be sure that was the only pathogen, and that the results are correct. The CDC can take up to—”
“Three days to confirm,” Davis finished with me.
I held out a hand, like I had to hand it to him. “See, you’re practically an expert.”
Davis furrowed his brow. “Practically? This is literally my job.”
“My apologies. Did you want to tell me the CDC’s recommendations for treatment?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Then what am I paying you for?”
“My company, I thought?”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.” He managed a wry grin, then gestured for me to continue.
“The anthrax vaccines just arrived, so you’ll have one dose now, and again in two weeks and four weeks. We’ll also have you on prophylactic cipro—five hundred milligrams, twice a day, for sixty days.” I started to list the side effects of the antibiotic, but Davis interrupted.
“Cipro?” He gave a low whistle. “Pulling out the big guns.”
I gave him a helpless shrug. “Anthrax.”
“Point taken. Can I go home, then?”
“Not until we’re cleared from the CDC. I will get you your PA’s number and... maybe your brother’s?”
“I don’t need his.” His tone was flat.
“Okay, it’s just—you know the mortality rate of anthrax.”
Davis simply stared at me until I had to give in. I let go of his hand to give him the paperwork with cipro’s long list of side effects and the symptoms he still needed to watch out for. While he looked it over, I fetched the tray with his vaccine and medication. “No history of vaccine injuries or reactions? Problems with cipro in the past?”
“Just a personal prejudice.”
I looked up from the tray. “Hm?”
“Oh—I think ciproflaxin is overprescribed and contributes to healthcare-associated infections and superbugs.”
“You’re not wrong,” I muttered. “Hope you included all that in the guideline edits.”
