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Bakshi had tried to deduce the nature of the family situation, but had been unsuccessful. Neither parent had come to visit. Perhaps these two were orphans.
Bakshi turned his attention to his patient to ask the basic questions that had to be asked, and to check vitals—and the informative less-than-vitals; like espionage, medicine was first and foremost about intelligence.
He examined the wound.
The young man was improving well.
“It’s looking good. You can go home tomorrow.”
Aaron winced. “The pain. Man, it’s really bad still.”
Comments like this always raised a red flag with Bakshi, as it did with all doctors, who might be in a position to prescribe pain meds. Of course, the drugs existed for a vital reason. But the border between relief and abuse was often thin as fishing line. Aaron had answered on the admission sheet that he had three glasses of wine a week and did not do recreational drugs.
The template response of ten million patients.
You could cut and paste it.
“It’s just, it’s not only the burn. My neck too the crash.”
Aaron’s ortho scans had come back negative, but pain was a creature unto itself. Both cunning and a master of disguise. It appeared, it vanished, it attacked, it retreated, then circled in from the rear.
“I’ll give you four days’ worth. Then check in with your regular GP.”
“Great. Thanks.” The gratitude seemed delivered with an edge of grudge.
Natalia was saying, “Tomorrow? Not today?” She hadn’t lifted her head as she texted and Bakshi realized she was responding to his comment from a moment ago.
She continued, “I’d like to get him out of here as soon as—”
The sentence had ended abruptly and with a gasp.
“No one move,” came a man’s stern voice from the door.
Bakshi spun around.
“Shit,” Aaron was saying.
“No!” A dismayed whisper from his sister.
Into the room was walking a trim blond man who, with an exceedingly grim face, was gazing from patient to sister and back.
“It’s him, that Pulaski! He’s the one who hit Aaron!”
“Sir—” Bakshi shut up when he saw the gun in the man’s hand.
Pulaski said, “Could you give us a minute?”
“I … I …”
Natalia said, “He can’t be here! He’s not supposed to be here! Call security!”
Bakshi gripped the chart tablet and looked back at the nurses’ station. It was empty.
“Help!” Natalia cried.
“Shhh,” Pulaski said, wincing at her mini scream.
Pulaski glanced at Bakshi, who said in a whisper, “Can I leave?”
