Bloodstream

“Frog sure looks dead,” he said.

She shuddered.

Mrs. Horatio came walking down the aisle carrying the jar of frogs. She stopped beside Noah and Amelia.

“Take one. Each team works on a frog.”

The blood drained from Amelia’s face. It was up to Noah.

He shoved his hand in the jar and grabbed a wriggling frog. Mrs. Horatio slapped a pithing needle down on his desk. “Get started, you two,” she said, and moved on to the next team.

Noah looked down at the frog he was holding. It stared back at him, bug-eyed. He picked up the pithing needle, then he looked at the frog again. Those eyes were begging him, Let me live, let me live! He put down the needle, his nausea back full force, and looked hopefully at Amelia. “You wa

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Don’t make me, please.”

One of the girls screamed. Noah glanced sideways and saw Lydia Lipman leap out of her chair and scramble away from her lab partner, Taylor Darnell. There was a wooden thud, thud, thud, as Taylor stabbed his pithing needle into the frog.

Blood spattered on his desk.

“Taylor! Taylor, stop it!” said Mrs. Horatio.

He kept stabbing. Thud, thud. The frog looked like green hamburger. “D plus,” he muttered. “I studied all week for that test. You can’t give me a D plus!”

“Taylor, go to the principal’s office.”

He stabbed the frog harder. “You can’t give me a lousy D plus!”

She grabbed his wrist and tried to take the needle away from him. “Go see Miss Cornwallis now!”

Taylor yanked away, knocking the dead frog off his desk. It tumbled into Amelia’s lap. With a shriek, she jumped to her feet and the small corpse slatted to the floor.

“Taylor!” Mrs. Horatio yelled. Again she grabbed his wrist, this time forcing him to drop the pithing needle. “Leave this room immediately!”

“Fuck you!”

“What did you say?”

He stood up and shoved his chair to the floor. “Fuck you!”

“You are suspended as of right now! You’ve been sullen and disrespectful all week. This is it, buddy. You’re out of here!”

He kicked the chair. It bounced up the aisle and crashed into a desk. Grabbing his shirt, she tried to march him toward the door, but he twisted free and shoved her backwards. She fell against a desk, toppling the jar. It shattered, and frogs leaped free, scattering away in a writhing carpet of green.

Slowly Mrs. Horatio rose to her feet, fury blazing in her eyes. “I’m going to have you expelled!”

Taylor reached into his backpack.

Mrs. Horatio’s gaze froze on the gun in his hand. “Put it down,” she said.

“Taylor, put it down!”

The explosion seemed to punch her in the abdomen. She staggered backwards, clutching her belly, and dropped to the floor with a look of disbelief. Time seemed to halt, frozen for one interminable moment as Noah stared down in horror at the bright river of blood streaming toward his sneakers. Then a girl’s terrified shriek pierced the silence. In the next instant, chaos exploded all around him. He heard chairs slam to the floor, saw a fleeing girl stumble and fall to her knees in the broken glass. The air itself seemed misted with blood and panic.

Another gunshot exploded.

Noah’s gaze swept around in a slow-motion pan of fleeing bodies, and he saw Vernon Hobbs tumble forward and crash into a desk. The room was a blur of flying hair and churning legs. But Noah himself could not seem to move. His feet were mired in a waking nightmare, his body refusing to obey his brain’s commands of Run! Run!

His gaze pa

No, he thought. No!

Taylor fired.

A streak of blood magically appeared on Amelia’s temple and the rivulet slowly dripped down her cheek, yet she remained standing, her eyes wide and focused like a condemned animal’s on the gun barrel. “Please, Taylor,” she whispered.

“Please, don’t..

Taylor raised the gun again.

All at once, Noah’s legs broke free of their nightmare paralysis, his body moving of its own accord. His brain registered a multitude of details at once.

He saw Taylor’s head come up, face rotating toward Noah. He saw the gun slowly sweep around in an arc. He saw the look of surprise in Taylor’s eyes as Noah came flying at him.

Another bullet exploded out of the barrel.

“I’ve just noticed my patient was admitted. Why didn’t anyone call me?”

The ward clerk looked up from her desk and seemed to shrink when she saw it was Claire asking the question. “Uh… which patient, Dr. Elliot?”

“Katie Youmans. I saw her name posted on one of the doors, but she’s not in the room. I can’t find her chart in the rack.”

“She was admitted just a few hours ago, through the ER. She’s in X-ray right now.”

“No one notified me.”

The clerk’s gaze dropped like a stone to her desk. “Dr. DelRay's taken over as attending physician.’

Claire absorbed this dismaying news in silence. It was not uncommon for patients to switch physicians, sometimes for the most trivial of reasons. Two of Adam DelRay’s patients had transferred to Claire’s practice as well. But she was surprised that this particular patient would choose to leave her care.

Sixteen years old, and mildly retarded, Katie Youmans had been living with her father when she was brought in to see Claire for a bladder infection. Claire had noticed at once the circumferential bruises on the girl’s wrists. Forty-five minutes of gentle questioning and a pelvic examination had confirmed Claire’s suspicions. Katie was removed from her father’s abusive household and placed in foster care.

Since then, the girl had thrived. Her bruises, both physical and emotional, finally faded. Claire had counted Katie as one of her triumphs. Why would the girl switch doctors?

She found Katie in X-ray. Through the small viewing window, Claire saw the girl lying on the table, her lower leg positioned beneath the X-ray tube.

“Can I ask what the admitting diagnosis is?” Claire asked the tech.

“They told me cellulites of the right foot. Her chart’s over there, if you want to look at it.”

Claire picked up the medical record and flipped to the admission note. It had been dictated by Adam DelRay at seven A.M. that morning.

Sixteen-year-old white female who stepped on a tack two days ago. This morning she awakened with fever chills, and swollen foot…

Claire skimmed the history and physical, then turned the page and read the therapeutic plan.

Quickly she picked up the phone to page Adam DelRay.

A moment later, he walked into X-ray, looking crisply starched as Usual in his long white coat. Though he had always been cordial toward her, he had never displayed any real warmth, and she suspected that under his Yankee reserve burned a masculine sense of Competition, perhaps even resentment, that Claire had lured away two of his patients.

Now he had laid claim to one of hers, and she had to suppress her own feelings of competitiveness. Only the well-being of Katie Youmans should concern her now.

“I’ve been following Katie as an outpatient,” she said. “I know her pretty well, and-”

“Claire, it’s just one of those things.” He lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I hope you don’t take it personally.”

“That’s not why I paged you.”

“It was just more convenient for me to admit her. I was in the ER when she came in. And her guardian felt Katie needed an internist.”

“I’m perfectly capable of treating cellulites, Adam.”

“What if it turns into osteomyelitis? It could get complicated.”

“Are you saying a family physician isn’t qualified to take care of this patient?”

“The girl’s guardian made the decision. I just happened to be available.”

By now Claire was too angry to respond. Turning, she stared through the window at her patient. At her ex-patient. Suddenly she focused on the girl’s N, and she noticed the handwritten label affixed to the bag of dextrose and water. “Is she already getting antibiotics?”