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“I lost my nurse … Push!”
So they really said that.
Sachs had a coughing fit.
“You sick?” the doctor asked.
“No, acid exposure.”
The woman slapped her stethoscope on Sachs’s chest. “Breathe.”
Sachs did.
“Again.”
Once more.
“You’re all right.”
“What?”
“You’re fine. I know lungs.”
Just like that …
“Now, I need your help.”
“Look, you better find somebody else.”
“Oh, who?” the doctor asked, genuinely mystified.
This portion of the corridor was empty.
“Did they teach you this in cop school?”
“I missed that part.”
“Well, Detective, there’re eight billion people on earth and they all got here the same way. It’s not that hard.” A fast smile. “You’ll do fine. Clean gloves.” Then to the woman: “Breathe. Push!”
“Jesus Christ!” the woman wailed.
“Is she … okay?”
“Ah, yes. She’s good.”
Sachs ripped off the blue latex and grabbed clear surgical gloves, thicker than what she wore at crime scenes. It’s nearly impossible to pull them on moist fingers, so she blew hard to dry them.
Once gloved, she turned to the doctor, who said, “I need the vitals. That monitor there. Call them out. Temperature, pulse, respiration, blood pressure. That’s all I need for now.”
For now? What the hell was coming next?
Another scream, apparently.
Brother, the woman had lungs.
“I want some fucking drugs!”
“You’re doing fine. Push!”
