“Sergei,” Dom said as he closed and locked the door. “This is Dr. Rojas. He’s a friend. You can trust him.”
Rojas shot Dom a look, as if to ask why there should be any concern, but he’d been around La Cosa Nostra long enough not to actually bring the question to life. Instead, he sat down beside Sergei. “How long have you been out of the water?”
Sergei picked up his phone with a shaky hand and looked at the screen. “A few hours.” He swallowed as he set the phone down again. “Did some pure oxygen after I got out, but…”
“Well, that’s good. You’d be in worse shape if you hadn’t done that.”
Sergei muttered something in Russian.
“You an experienced diver?” Rojas asked as he attached a mask and tube to the oxygen tank.
“Yeah. But this time, I—” Sergei paused, glancing at Dom. “I was cold, and I came up too fast.”
“Define too fast.”
Sergei rubbed his eyes. “Too fast.”
Rojas scowled. He and Dom exchanged a look, and the doctor shrugged before facing Sergei again. “I’m going to have you breathe some more O2.” He put the tank beside Sergei’s chest and started to slip the mask on him, but Sergei winced. “You all right?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Rojas hesitated, and then put the mask over Sergei’s nose and mouth. As he brought the tank closer, said, “Breathe normally, all right?”
Eyes closed, Sergei nodded. The tank hissed as Rojas turned on the valve, and the inside of the mask fogged up, cleared, fogged up again. Dom shifted his weight. He hated this helpless, useless feeling. There was nothing he could do for Sergei now except wait and hope to God Rojas could help.
Rojas set his backpack on the edge of the bed and unzipped it. “I’m going to start an IV and give you some isotonic fluid to keep you hydrated. It should also help dissolve the bubbles in your system.” He pulled a plastic, water-filled bag and a long tube from the pack.
“What the fuck is all that?” Sergei asked. “You Mary Poppins’ kid or something?”
“Not quite.” Rojas uncapped a needle. “Just things you gotta keep handy when you’re constantly putting people back together in this town.”
Sergei’s eyes flicked toward Dom.
Rojas pressed the needle into Sergei’s arm, and Sergei’s lips pulled tight behind the mask. He winced again, but Rojas was quick—he could probably set up an IV in his sleep. In seconds, everything was in place, and he tethered the bag to the top of the bedside lamp.
“How do you feel?” Rojas asked.
Sergei scowled behind the mask. “Like I could use a drink.”
“Well, be that as it may”—Rojas shrugged—“alcohol consumption won’t help. No booze for the next forty-eight hours.”
Sergei muttered something, but the mask muffled it.
The doc checked him over, listening to his chest and taking his blood pressure. Dom stayed out of the way, watching silently as his heart pounded and his stomach tried to flip over. He’d come here needing relief after a traumatic morning, but all of that seemed a distant memory now. Was Sergei all right? Jesus, he looked terrible, and no matter how much Dom tried, he couldn’t will any color to bloom in Sergei’s sickly pale face.
Rojas draped his stethoscope around his neck and ran through a battery of questions, mostly asking about Sergei’s symptoms, and occasionally throwing in questions about what day it was, where he was, what his name was.
“Have you had any paralysis? Numbness?”
“No,” Sergei said. “Balance is fucked, but… no.”
“Good. What’s your mother’s name?”
Sergei’s expression darkened.
Rojas stiffened a little. “Where are you right now?”
“In the Salty Air Motel, wondering why some fuck wants to know about my mother.”
“Well, you’re obviously not confused, then.” Rojas checked the gauge on the oxygen tank. “Why don’t you just relax for a little while?”
Sergei glared at him, but didn’t speak. He let his eyelids slide shut, and breathed slowly, the O2 mask continuing to fog and clear in time with the rise and fall of his chest.
Rojas got up and gestured for Dom to come with him to the other side of the room. Not that there was much space in a room this small, but between the hum of the air conditioner and the hiss of the oxygen, there was a surprising amount of privacy.
Back slightly to Sergei, Dom asked, “How is he?”
“Well, don’t ask about his mother…”
Dom pursed his lips. “I mean, his condition.”
“Yeah, I know. And it’s good you called me when you did.” He draped his stethoscope over his neck. “The oxygen should help, along with the IV. As long as his symptoms don’t worsen, he should improve.”
“And if they do?”
Rojas glanced at Sergei. “Then he needs to go to a hospital.”
Dom scowled.
The doctor shot him a pointed look. “By all rights, I should be telling him to go to a hospital now because he’s not out of the woods yet.”
Dom shifted his weight. “Just tell me honestly—hospital, or no?
Rojas chewed his lip. For a long moment, he watched Sergei.