“Then that’s it, people. Things just got officially worse. She’s probably got aseptic meningitis. Let’s get her under right away. We’re gonna have to roll the dice on this one after all, I’m afraid. We’ll only be able to fight the swelling in her brain if she’s unconscious. She’s going to have to be monitored around the clock, though. You,“ he says, pointing at an intern. “Do not leave this child’s side.”
“But my shift’s up in thirty—” He stops talking when Margate looks up at him, pinning him with a look of fury. “Yes, sir. Of course. I won’t leave her.”
“Good. Get that scan immediately, people. I want to see what’s going on inside that head of hers.”
Margate leaves. Millie’s still shaking on the gurney. We won’t be able to get her sedated quick enough. Her body needs a break from the constant beating its taking. When I look up, about to start ordering people into action, I notice Zeth standing in the doorway of the procedure room. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and his expression is dark to say the least.
We’d never normally allow a civilian to observe like that, but he’s not your average civilian. He wasn’t panicking like most people would have been. He didn’t say a word. He kept his mouth shut and he watched, by the looks of things, and he didn’t interfere. Margate didn’t even remark on his presence as he left the room, which means he probably thought Zeth was another doctor or something.
I take hold of him by the arm as the nurses wheel Millie out and up the corridor toward the elevators, where they’ll then take her for an MRI. “Don’t you want to go home and wait for me there? It’s the middle of the night,” I say.
He follows Millie with his eyes as she’s taken away. “I’ll wait here.” His voice is flat, monotone, and cold. “You shouldn’t even be here. You’re gonna need a ride when you’re done.”
“Michael could always run me back later.”
Zeth shakes his head. I can tell by the stoic, emotionless way he’s holding himself that he won’t be swayed on the matter. He doesn’t blink until the elevator doors have closed and Millie’s out of sight. “What’s gonna happen to her?” he asks. “Best guess.”
I don’t want to tell him the truth, but I also don’t want to lie. I hesitate, and then say, “Her outlook isn’t good. She’s so young. With such a violent, prolonged seizure, and the likelihood that she’s developed aseptic meningitis, chances are she’ll either…just stop breathing when we put her under, or her brain will have swollen to the point where there’s nothing we can do for her.” It feels like bad luck to paint such a grim picture of the next twelve hours, but trying to create a different image altogether will only serve to get my own hopes up, and that’s dangerous. Zeth clears his throat.
“She’s so small. I didn’t know his sister was so young. He’s been taking care of her all by himself.”
“Yeah. Since she was a baby.”
Turning his back on the elevator, Zeth straightens his shoulders, inhaling deeply. “I’m not hanging around in the waiting room. I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t. This is a hospital, Zeth. People can’t just wander around wherever they like. It’d be a madhouse.”
“Are you going to report me to security?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“No, of course not. But—”
“All right. Well until someone says something, I’m with you. The moment I’m asked to leave, I’ll go. Until then, I’m your fucking shadow.”
There’s nothing I can say that will change his mind now. I’ve learned to pick my battles with this man. If letting him observe what happens with Millie means I’ll be able to claim a victory for myself at some other time, then so be it. “Urgh. Fine. But you’re going to need scrubs or something.”
Zeth, for a fleeting second, looks charmed by the idea of scrubs. I find him a clean set in the residents’ lounge, and he quickly strips down and puts them on. Upstairs on the neuro ward, Millie’s already been put under. Only the soles of her bare feet are visible from inside the MRI machine. I leave Zeth in the control booth with a very frightened looking resident at the computer, observing the scan as it progresses, and I head out to find Margate. I need to know what he’s thinking—if there’s anything further that can be done while we’re waiting for the results of the MRI to be compiled. I’m halfway down the hall when an alarm starts wailing and the door to the MRI room flies open. The resident who was studiously fixated on the stills flashing up on the screen in front of him, doing his best to ignore Zeth a moment ago, is now racing toward me, face white as a freshly starched sheet.
“She’s coding. She’s fucking coding,” he gasps.
We run.
Thankfully the resident’s turned the MRI off. We slide Millie out of the narrow tube, and she is still, and cold, and worryingly blue. “She’s not breathing. Arrhythmic tachycardia. Fuck. Her heart’s giving out. Go get the paddles.”