Do No Harm

David found himself looking for Diane, though he knew it wasn't her shift. He'd have to find support elsewhere.

The man was sobbing. "They made me walk slow and burn."

David tried to quell his rising anger at his staff. Still, no one was moving to help him. "Where the hell are those trauma shears!"

Pat stood behind Jenkins, the overhead lights catching the black hairs peppered through her gray buzz cut. The skin around her eyes was drawn taut, sending a network of wrinkles through her cheeks. Her expression was one David had never seen.

The man flopped and screeched.

"Can someone move? Will someone get to work here?" David's voice was high and thin. Nobody responded.

One of the undercover cops, dressed as a parking attendant, stepped forward. "Let's go, guys," he said. "Do your jobs."

"Pat," David said. "Bring trauma shears."

Pat glared down at the man. She did not move. An instantaneous sweat covered David's back, and he felt a tingle roll across it. "This is not a choice for us to make." He spoke slowly, his voice shaking. "There is no decision here."

Slowly, Pat crossed her arms.

Choking on rage, he rose and shoved past Jill into Exam Fourteen. Carson watched him from the far side of the hall, shocked. David grabbed some trauma shears from a tray, and holding his stethoscope so it wouldn't slide off his shoulders, half jogged back to the patient. Aside from the crusted red acne, the man's face was corpse-white.

"I have to flip him over. Take off the cuffs."

"No way," Jenkins said. "No fuckin' way."

The cop dressed as a parking attendant stepped forward, but Jenkins placed a hand on his chest. "Don't even think about it, Blake."

The man's shoulders hit the floor with a slap when David rolled him onto his back. His arms were twisted beneath him, and he shrieked.

"I know," David said. "It hurts, but we're doing this to help you."

Don watched, feet planted, hands in his pockets.

"I'm going to cut your sweatshirt off, because it's burning you," David said, fighting to keep his voice level. "I'm going to cut it using these scissors." He slid the open trauma shears up the front of the fabric. "What's your name?"

"Not telling."

"Hey, hey." David leaned over, close to the man's face. It smelled sticky and sweet, like orange-flavored candy. "It's okay. I'm here to help you. What's your name?" The man's eye beat a few times as it pulled over to look at David. David looked away quickly, wanting to avoid eye contact that could be interpreted as confrontational. A shiny puddle of drool had collected on the tile where the man's mouth had been.

"Clyde."

David threw the halved sweatshirt open like a blazer. A few pieces of glass and the broad lip of a Pyrex beaker tinkled to the floor. Luckily for Clyde, the beaker had shattered between his sweatshirt and his scrub top. The stencil on the scrub top featured a seal, below which UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA MEDICAL CENTER: UCLA, UCI, UCSD was written in a jailhouse blue. It could have been stolen from this very hospital. The top yielded easily to the blade, and David saw that the thin layer of material had helped to lessen the damage. The alkali had soaked through, leaving the skin red. In a few spots, white blisters were beginning to rise. Minor cuts covered his chest and lower neck, but little glass had made it all the way through the scrub top into the wounds.

"Try to slow your breathing, Clyde," David said. "We don't want you to hyperventilate." His voice betrayed his anger and exasperation. "We need to irrigate!"

Finally, a hand holding a saline bottle extended toward David, a woven leather bracelet around the wrist. David took the bottle from Carson and began spraying. Carson crouched on Clyde's other side and joined him.

"Missed a spot," Jenkins said sardonically, pointing at a large blister under Clyde's nipple.

David ignored Jenkins, leaning forward so his face was near Clyde's. "We're spraying you off with water now. We're doing this to wash off the alkali that is burning you."

Clyde shifted on his bound hands, squealing with pain. No one else came near them; the staff and officers standing back in their muted ring. "I didn't want to," Clyde whimpered. "I was going to, like before, but I didn't want to do it."

"Let's get him to an exam room. Dr. Lambert, get me a stretcher. A stretcher." David glanced up, his mouth pursed with anger. "Get me a stretcher now!"

Don returned David's gaze for what seemed an eternity, the only sound in the hall that of Clyde's whimpering. Finally, he turned and walked leisurely to retrieve a stretcher. It took him ten seconds to turn the corner, his slow pace mocking David.

Sweat dripped from David's forehead onto Clyde's face, and he leaned back and wiped his brow with an arm. "We have to get him on a bed. We don't have time to wait while Dr. Lambert plays games. Carson, keep irrigating." David turned to the cop Jenkins had referred to as Blake. "And you. Will you give me a hand?"