Part of him didn’t want to lose that.
He needed to help June. He needed to be useful.
Peter wasn’t built to be a bystander.
The ER doctor cruised in with a Red Bull and a tired smile. “I’m Dr. Baird.” He was a few years older than Peter, unshaven in green scrubs and black clogs, eyes sagging with fatigue. His hair stood on end like he’d been recently electrocuted, but Peter figured that was just the style. Or shock therapy to keep him awake on a long shift. He hit a few keys on the cart-mounted computer. “So, what’d you do to yourself?”
“Car accident,” said Peter. “Leg, ribs, sliced up my scalp.” He repeated what he’d told the nurse, trying to speed up the process.
The doc stepped back from the computer and looked at Peter. The sweat rings at his armpits, shoulders rising up to his ears. “You must have a high tolerance for pain,” he said.
“It’s not pain,” said Peter, his head throbbing. He was starting to have trouble getting air into his lungs. Breathe in, breathe out. “I’m claustrophobic,” he said. It was an easy shorthand. “Panic attacks, pretty bad. Be nice to get out of here soon.”
“We’ll do what we can,” said the doc. “You on any medications? Prescribed by a doctor or otherwise?”
Peter shook his head. “Not unless you count beer.”
“How much beer?”
“That was a joke,” said Peter. “I don’t have a drinking problem.”
“That’s what they all say. Did you serve overseas? Iraq? Afghanistan?”
Peter closed his eyes again, his hand at his temple. “The leg, Doc. I’m here for the leg.”
The doc let the air out of his lungs, not quite a sigh. But he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But I’m going to look at your ribs, too.”
He poked and prodded at Peter’s right side and listened to his lungs. “Doesn’t seem like more than simple fractures,” he said. “But we’ll do a CT to make sure. You don’t want organ damage or a nicked aorta.” Then he examined Peter’s leg, which was swelling nicely above the ankle. “Can’t really tell without an X-ray,” he said. “But you probably broke something in there. I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’ve got either a tibial plateau fracture or an isolated fibula fracture. I’ll get you set up with Radiology.”
He went back to the computer. “It says you don’t have insurance? If you were in combat overseas, I think the VA still covers you.”
“I’ll pay my own way,” said Peter.
The doc looked at him.
“It’s complicated,” said Peter. “I’ll pay.”
“I can’t even tell you how much it will cost,” said the doc. “Billing is all done separately.”
Peter reached over to his pants, pulled the wad of hundreds out of his pocket, and held it up for the doc to see. He was sweating hard. “I can pay, okay? Send me the damn bill and let’s keep moving.”
The doc looked at Peter steadily. “Were you really in a car accident?”
“Yes.” Peter willed himself not to get irritated. Some people thought all vets were crazy. Grenades with the pin pulled, waiting to go off. Peter wasn’t helping the cause. He took a breath, let it out. “I was trying to help a friend,” he said. “She’s in trouble.”
The doc held his gaze for a long moment, then seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Okay,” he said. “I can prescribe something for the panic attacks, if you’d like. Basic anti-anxiety meds, they’re pretty common.”
“No, thanks.” Peter had tried medication the year before. It had made him feel slow, like his head was filled with flavorless pink Jell-O. To protect June, he needed every bit of quick he could muster.
“Suit yourself,” said the doc. “Give me a minute, we’ll find you a wheelchair.” He handed Peter a plastic bag for his clothes, then took his phone from his pocket and stepped out of the exam room.
Peter stuffed his clothes into the bag. Breathe in, breathe out. Fill those goddamn lungs.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the doorjamb. An older man with a neatly trimmed beard and glasses stuck his head through the opening. “Somebody need a ride to Radiology?”
The older man with the beard didn’t look like Peter’s idea of an orderly. Usually they were younger guys, sized for the heavy work of lifting patients from a gurney to a bed and back. This orderly was old enough to be Peter’s dad, and looked like he spent most of his time in the library. And he didn’t have a name tag, unlike everyone else Peter had seen in the hospital.
“I’m Don.” He must have seen something in how Peter looked him up and down. “This isn’t my regular job,” he explained. “We’re a few people short tonight. I’m just helping out.”
“Great,” said Peter. “Let’s roll.”
? ? ?
THE ELEVATOR WAS A CHALLENGE. Peter closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying hard not to think about being stuck in the basement of this giant building. He’d need to rehydrate after all this sweating. And change his clothes. He didn’t want June to see him like this.
He couldn’t believe he’d actually considered spending a night in jail to kill the static.