Casting Stones
by:  Satchie

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Disclaimer:  The wonderful characters of the Emergency! universe belong to Mark VII Limited and Universal Television.  I'm merely borrowing them again for my own devious purposes.

Acknowledgements:  I am profoundly grateful to my medical consultants/betas, Julie Novakovic R.N.  BScN and MamaSue (taking a deep breath...RN BSN COHN-S EMT ERT-Inst FFII FFD/O) for providing much needed assistance with different aspects of this "little project."  I am also deeply indebted to Whisper for keeping my abuses of the English language to a minimum.

Note:  I confess.  Although I strive to portray technical aspects as accurately as possible, I "kinda sorta" took a few liberties in order to milk some serious angst.  Therefore, certain inaccuracies are intended, and did not escape the exacting scrutiny of my wonderful betas.

Dedication:  To dee_ayy, Peggy and Susan Proto, who inspired me to dabble in two fandoms, and provided a forum for a probie writer to post her first story.

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It was another hectic day in Rampart's emergency room, and Dr. Early's pounding headache showed no sign of abating.  Despite his ingestion of aspirin three hours earlier, the pain was becoming increasingly intolerable.  Considering how queasy he felt, he wondered if it would be prudent to take additional medication.  However, as the unrelenting throbbing became worse, he decided to take his chances, and slowly headed toward the doctors' lounge.

Early reached into his lab coat for the now familiar plastic bottle and shook two of the white pills into the palm of his hand.  Washing them down with a swallow of strong black coffee, he sat down on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment.  Almost immediately, the nausea that had plagued him all morning became overwhelming.  He bolted from his seat and raced to the men's room, where he proceeded to lose his valiant struggle and promptly emptied the meager contents of his stomach into the porcelain toilet bowl.  His energy spent, Early leaned against the cool metal stall to support his weight.  After the evidence was safely flushed away, he walked to the sink and splashed cold water on his face in a feeble attempt to revive himself.  He took a deep breath and wondered how in the world he was going to make it through the rest of his shift.

Upon his return to the nurses' station, Dr. Brackett eyed him suspiciously.  "Another headache?"

"Yeah.  I haven't had this many migraines in years."

The senior physician probed further.  "You've been vomiting again, haven't you?"

"Just a little bit."

"Hmm.  Isn't that like being a little bit pregnant?  You either are or you aren't."  Brackett gestured toward his office.  "Come on, Joe.  We need to talk."

Reluctantly, Early followed his friend.  Seating himself in one of the leather chairs in front of the imposing desk, he felt like an errant schoolboy being called into the principal's office.  He braced himself for the lecture that was about to ensue.

"Joe, you've been having these headaches for a few months now.  I'm worried about you."

"I appreciate your concern, but it's not necessary.  You know I've had migraines off and on for years," Early tiredly replied.  "They're more likely to recur when I'm stressed out.  Ever since Administration, in its so-called wisdom, dramatically slashed our budget, I've been working these ridiculous hours and double shifts with very little time off.  It's catching up with me, that's all."  He wanly smiled.  "I'm not a young resident, Kel.  My body isn't accustomed to this abuse anymore."

Brackett sighed in frustration.  It was true the recent staffing cutbacks seriously threatened to undermine the ability of his department to function at peak efficiency.  Several employees had been let go in the interest of attaining an arbitrary budget objective, and those who remained were called upon to work longer hours with little extra compensation.  Everyone's nerves were frazzled, and no doubt Joe Early wasn't the only person suffering from a stress-related illness.  Heck, wasn't he himself eating antacids like candy?  But his colleague was one of the calmest people under fire he knew.  He was having trouble reconciling the two images.

"I wish I could offer you some time off," Brackett apologized.

"I know.  Do you realize my last vacation was two years ago?"

"Has it been that long?"

Early slumped back in his chair.  "I'm exhausted, Kel.  I love working here, but I sincerely hope this situation is temporary.  I really want to believe that some brilliant soul in the bean-counting department will experience an epiphany any minute and realize the error of his ways.  I'm simply not sure I have the enthusiasm and endurance anymore to hang in there until things change for the better."

Seeking to reassure his distressed friend, Brackett forced a smile.  "I have a meeting with the board of directors and Wayne Rivers from Administration next week.  Hopefully we'll be able to make some progress then."

While leaning forward slightly, Early began massaging the back of his head.

"How long has it been since your last headache work up?" Brackett asked.

The question annoyed the neurosurgeon.  "Kel, for crying out loud, these are just migraines or migraine variants.  Trust me on this.  I've certainly had enough of them in my lifetime to recognize the little monsters."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Oh, good grief!  I suppose it was during the last year of my residency."

Folding his arms, Brackett responded, "I think you're a little overdue for a re-evaluation."

"You can't be serious!"

"Joe, maybe you're right, in which case I'll feel like a total idiot.  But you of all people shouldn't outright dismiss your headaches as unworthy of further investigation."

Early shakily ran his fingers through his hair.  He wasn't feeling well, and this conversation wasn't improving matters at all.

"No offense, Joe, but I'd like a second opinion," Brackett continued.  "I can have Dixie schedule a CT scan with contrast and a neurology consultation with Antonio Garza.  You can't keep working like this."

Resigned to his fate, Early merely nodded in agreement.

"Great, we'll get everything set up as soon as possible."  Brackett glanced at his watch.  "Joe, your shift will be over in a couple of hours.  Why don't you head on home?  I'll have Roger come in early to cover for you."

"Are you sure?  I don't mind..."

Casting a stern look in his direction, Brackett answered, "I'm positive.  Do you need anything for your headache or nausea?"

The white-haired physician shook his head.  "No, I just need a dark, quiet room for a few hours.  I'll be fine."

"Okay.  I'll let you know when Dixie has everything arranged."

Early knew he was probably expected to say something like, "Thanks, Kel.  I appreciate this," but he was profoundly irritated that Brackett was making a major production over his headaches.  If some imbecile hadn't decided to reduce the emergency department to numbers on a balance sheet, he wouldn't be in this predicament.  Unable to face his friend, Early silently stared at the floor as they headed back toward the nurses' station.

Before they reached their intended destination, the voice of a very frustrated paramedic caught their attention.  John Gage was in the throes of a full-fledged rant, completely oblivious to Dixie's amused expression.  Wildly waving his hands, Johnny bemoaned his tragic fate.  "Oh, man!  I can't believe this!  I'll be stuck here all night at this rate, and Mike is cooking spaghetti for supper.  There won't be a single crumb left by the time I get back to the station."

Brackett grabbed a chart from the desk.  "Johnny, what's the matter?"

Blessed with a new audience, the young man straightened as he prepared to retell his tale of woe.  "You know that last patient I brought in, the college kid with the busted ankle?  Roy was supposed to follow me in the squad, like he always does.  But on the way here, he heard a rattling sound under the hood, so he decided to have it checked out.  Charlie, our mechanic, thought he had the part for it, so he told Roy to stick around for a few minutes.  But it turned out that the box was empty and had accidentally gotten re-shelved.  So after Charlie finished chewing some poor guy out about the mix-up, he disappears for about an hour to pick up what he needed.  Anyway, after he went through all that trouble, it still didn't fix the problem.  Now he says he thinks it might be something serious, so he's pulled the squad out of service.  Roy was able to hitch a ride back to the station, but what the heck am I supposed to do?  There hasn't been a call since I've been here or I would have begged a ride from one of the other squads.  And wouldn't you know it?  Mike hasn't made his world-famous spaghetti in ages.  He's making garlic bread and everything.  Shoot.  There won't be anything left but a sink full of dirty dishes by the time I get back."  Johnny stopped to catch his breath, sipping his now cold coffee.

Early scratched his chin.  "Johnny, I'm about to leave for the day.  I can drop you off at the station on my way home."

Johnny positively beamed.  "No kidding?  You mean I might actually make it back in time for supper?  I'd sure appreciate it, Doc."

"Let me get my coat, and I'll be with you in a minute."

The paramedic's demeanor changed immediately.  He scrambled to the lounge to rinse his coffee cup and bounced back to the nurses' station to await his personal taxi service.  He impatiently transferred his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet.  Finally, the doctor reappeared with his suit coat slung over his shoulder.

"Are you ready?"

A starving Johnny pitifully rubbed his stomach.  "C'mon, Doc.  Let's go!"

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In his enthusiasm to return to the station, Johnny initially didn't detect anything amiss.  He excitedly told his captive chauffeur about the upcoming annual firefighter's picnic, and how he was almost tied with Charlie Dwyer for first place in raffle sales.  This year's coveted prize was a brand new stereo, and Johnny was determined to win the contest.  In fact, he was so assured of victory, he had already cleared a spot in his living room for the anticipated bounty.

Early mutely nodded periodically in response to his passenger's highly animated commentary.  Eventually realizing he was carrying on a one-sided conversation, Johnny diverted his attention toward the construction site ahead.  Now that he thought about it, Early had seemed preoccupied ever since he volunteered to give Johnny a ride.  He frequently rubbed his temples as though he had a wicked headache.  Realizing that might be the reason the doctor left before his shift usually ended, Johnny felt guilty for imposing upon him.

As they sat at the red light, the paramedic glanced to his right and snorted with disgust.  Ever since the city had erected the concrete traffic barrier during a road reconstruction project, emergency personnel had to navigate back streets, adding precious minutes to their response time.  Why in the heck couldn't they work on a section at a time, instead of blocking nearly a mile of one of the most heavily traveled roads at once?

Although it was already dusk, many cars still did not have their headlights turned on.  Since some of the street lamps had been removed in preparation for widening the road to add an additional lane, lighting was less than ideal.  Johnny anxiously drummed his fingers on his knee while they waited for the traffic signal to change.  A few seconds later, the light turned green, and Early pressed down on the accelerator.

Just before they pulled into the intersection, Johnny realized the blue pickup approaching from the left was going to run the red light.  With sickening clarity, he knew what was about to happen.  He quickly shouted a warning to Early to stop, but the physician seemed dazed.  They were sitting ducks for the impending disaster.  The concrete barrier to the right eliminated one means of escape.  Their only option was to speed through the intersection and veer to the left to prevent hitting the car ahead of them.  But why didn't Early see that, and why in the hell wasn't he trying to move out of the way?  Instinctively, Johnny leaned across the center console, twisting slightly sideways to turn the steering wheel.

Unfortunately, it was past time for evasive action.  The Ford F-100 struck the front of Early's side of the car, dragging them across the lane and slamming them against the concrete barrier.  For several seconds, there was a deafening crash of screeching metal and shattering glass.  Then everything went mercifully pitch black as they descended into oblivion.

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Officer Vince Howard was only a few blocks from the scene when dispatch reported the accident.  Grabbing the microphone, he acknowledged the call.

Upon his arrival, he quickly began assessing the situation.  Vince shook his head as he peered inside the pickup.  Empty whiskey bottles and beer cans littered the floor of the cab.  The steering wheel was tightly jammed against the driver's chest; his eyes were wide open, and blood trickled from his mouth.  Unable to open the door on the driver's side, Vince hurriedly ran around the bed of the pickup.  After a couple of forceful tugs, he opened the passenger door and knelt across the seat.  He instinctively pressed his fingertips against the driver's throat to check for a carotid pulse.  Finding none, he sadly turned his attention toward the victims of the other vehicle.

Vince covered the distance to the driver's side of the black Mercedes Benz within a few steps, and shone his flashlight through the broken window.  He inhaled sharply when he recognized the victims, and breathed a sigh of relief when the squad pulled up.

With a practiced calm he didn't feel, he motioned the paramedics to his side.  "I couldn't find a pulse on the driver of the pickup."  The police officer stared at the pavement to collect his thoughts.  "Guys, the victims in the car are Dr. Early and Johnny Gage."

Bob Bellingham let out a low whistle.  "Damn."  Careful of the shattered glass, he looked inside the crushed Mercedes.  He experimentally pulled on the left rear door, the only one accessible, but was met with disappointing resistance.  Bellingham called out to one of the firefighters.  "Paul, we're gonna need to pop this baby with a Halligan."

The burly man disappeared and returned with the pry bar.  With one determined effort, Paul opened the door.

Crawling into the back seat, Bellingham discovered a semi-conscious Johnny slumped across the center console, desperately clutching the steering wheel.  His fellow paramedic stirred when he checked for a pulse.  "Hey, buddy.  It's all right.  We're going to get you to Rampart as soon as we can, okay?"

Johnny's eyes fluttered open.  "What?"

"You were in an accident.  Do you remember?"

An odd expression crossed Johnny's face.  "Accident?"  Suddenly, an image of an approaching car invaded his disjointed thoughts, and he struggled to turn the steering wheel.  "Gotta get...out of here!"

"Shhhhh.  Settle down.  We'll get you out of here in a few minutes.  You know the drill."  Bellingham tried to rouse the unconscious physician, without success.  Despite his repeated attempts, Early remained unresponsive.  Pulling the penlight from his pocket, Bellingham leaned between the bucket seats and examined the doctor's eyes.  He frowned as he noted the sluggish and unequal pupils.

Brice approached the car and poked his head inside.  "Do you need any help?"  Noting his partner's inquisitive look, Brice whispered, "The driver of the other car is a Code F."

"Yeah.  Think you can squeeze in here and check Dr. Early out?"  Bellingham scooted directly behind Johnny to make room for the other paramedic.

Brice efficiently evaluated the doctor's airway, breathing and circulation, but further examination was impaired by Johnny's refusal to let go of the steering wheel.  "Gage, let go.  I need more room."

"No!  Gotta move...now!"

Rapidly growing impatient, Bellingham pried stubborn fingers from the wheel.  "Johnny, we'll take care of it.  We'll get you out of here, okay?  Just let us do our jobs."

"But the...other car!"  In his confused and agitated state, Johnny tried to fight off the determined men.  The sudden movement aggravated the sharp pain along his entire right side and pelvis, and several heart-wrenching screams tore from his throat as he slumped back against the seat.

Station 16's paramedics exchanged anxious glances.  Bellingham gently squeezed Johnny's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.  "Um...it's not going anywhere.  You're safe."

"Safe?"  The word finally penetrated through the fog, and Johnny's vocalizations faded to an occasional gasp or whimper as he submitted to Bellingham's evaluation.

Captain Pearson rested his hand against the roof of the car.  "Bob?"

"Yeah, Cap?"

"We're about finished hosing down the diesel from the ruptured fuel tank.  A three-foot high construction barrier is blocking the passenger doors, so we'll need to cut the roof off to get to Johnny.  Since we're not having any luck prying the door open on Dr. Early's side, we're going have to use the Jaws.  I've dispatched two ambulances.  The first one is already here."

Bellingham gently felt along Johnny's rib cage for fractures.  "Great.  I'll be done in a sec."

The intense pain on Johnny's right side was becoming unbearable.  He rested his head against the leather interior and attempted to slip back into a blissful unconscious state.  A sharp pinch to his earlobe startled him back to alertness.

"Don't you dare," Bellingham admonished.  "Stay with me.  Besides, your shift isn't over, and I'm sure Captain Stanley would have your butt for sleeping on the job," he teased.

Considerably more coherent than he was earlier, Johnny realized his colleague was right.  Unfortunately, he wasn't thinking like a paramedic at the moment.  All he knew was that he hurt, and badly.  Searching for a diversion to distract him from his misery, he gestured toward Early.  "How is he doing?"

"Brice is checking him out.  Let's worry about you right now."

Johnny winced as Bellingham palpated his abdomen.  "What about me?"

Trying to keep the mood light, Bellingham grinned.  "What?  Johnny Gage asking for my professional opinion?  I thought you said it would be a cold day in hell before I could out-diagnose you!"

Rising to the bait, Johnny gritted his teeth and steeled himself for the challenge.  "Okay...I guess I'll have...to show you how...it's done."  He bit his lip in concentration while he mentally performed a quick inventory.  "Um...oh, man.  I don't remember it hurting...so much to do a prelim exam.  Oh, wow.  Okay.  Uh...I have a broken femur...um, humerus...maybe messed up my knee.  I think I hit it on the dashboard..."  Johnny screamed when Bellingham felt for pelvic fractures.  "Ooooow!  You trying...to kill me?"

"Sorry about that."  Bellingham quickly completed his assessment and applied a pressure dressing over the jagged leg wound.  Mangled steel partially trapped Johnny's right side, obscuring the full extent of the fracture.  However, the amount of slick, warm blood told Bellingham volumes about his patient's condition.  He hastily scribbled Johnny's vital signs in his notebook before handing it to his partner.

Adjusting his glasses, Brice braced himself to begin the transmission.  Even though he wasn't a close friend to either of the car's occupants, they were members of the Rampart family.  Cradling the biophone's receiver against his shoulder, Brice consulted his notes.  "Rampart, this is Squad 16, how do you read?"

Brackett's deep voice responded.  "Squad 16, go ahead."

Summoning his resolve, Brice continued.  "Rampart, we have three victims of a MVA, one is a Code F."  The sound of an approaching wrecker briefly distracted him.  "Victim #1 is unconscious, and is non-responsive except to painful stimuli.  There is a 7-cm.  laceration to the left frontal area, with significant swelling.  Pupils are sluggish and unequal.  Crepitus of the ninth and tenth left ribs is noted, as well as mild rigidity of the abdomen.  The left radius and ulna are also fractured.  BP is 108/84, pulse 112, respirations 22."  Brice paused to review his partner's notes.  "Rampart, Victim #2 is conscious, although there was some initial disorientation.  No obvious sign of head trauma.  There is a compound fracture of the right femur and simple fracture of the right humerus.  Crepitus is noted along right ribs 4-6.  Victim is complaining of pelvic and abdominal pain, as well as right knee pain.  Vital signs are as follows.  BP is 80/62, pulse 120 and respirations 26."  Tapping his notepad with his pen, he hesitated.  "Uh, Rampart...please be advised Victim #1 is Dr. Early and Victim #2 is John Gage."

Brackett's jaw dropped in stunned disbelief, while Dixie placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  "Understood, Squad 16.  Start an IV of Normal Saline at 150 per hour on both victims, and administer 15 liters O2 by mask.  Splint fractures as soon as possible, and take full spinal precautions.  What is your estimated ETA?"

"We should have Victim #1 extricated in approximately 15 minutes.  Estimate an additional 15-20 minutes before Victim #2 can be removed from the vehicle."

"Understood, 16.  Keep us advised.  Rampart out."

Brice motioned to one of the other firefighters.  "Donato, I require your assistance.  Bring two oxygen tanks with non-rebreather masks from the squad.  Then we'll need a couple of long backboards and one short board."  While Rick gathered the requested items, Brice quickly retrieved the rest of the needed medical paraphernalia and carried it to the car.

Bellingham eagerly accepted a c-collar from his partner and secured it around Johnny's neck.  "The guys are chomping at the bit.  They had the wrecker pull the truck out of the way while you were on the line with Rampart."

"I noticed that."  After applying a c-collar to his patient, Brice slipped an oxygen mask over Early's face.  "Has he shown any sign of regaining consciousness?"

"Nope.  Nada.  Zilch."  Bellingham grabbed the second O2 tank and mask from the young probie, and began unfurling the plastic tubing.  "Thanks, Rick."

Within minutes, the paramedics completed their tasks of starting IVs and splinting fractures.  Rick and Paul carefully arranged a tarp over their injured colleagues to protect them from any flying debris.  Once the Jaws' arms were tightly clamped around the door, they began to pull the mangled steel away from the car.

Bellingham squeezed through the space between the bucket seats, trying to calm his increasingly agitated patient.  "Whoa, Johnny.  Hold still.  We're working on getting you guys out of here.  They'll be finished with the Jaws in a couple of minutes."  While Johnny occasionally flinched at the noise and vibration, Early remained unconscious.

Ten minutes later, the door was removed.  Careful to keep the doctor's neck and spine properly aligned, the paramedics slid Early onto a backboard and moved him to an awaiting gurney.  Brice double-checked the flow of the IV.  "I can manage from here.  Why don't you go back to the car and monitor Gage's condition?"

Unable to resist the opportunity to poke fun at his partner, Bellingham affectionately slapped him on the back.  "Aw, Brice.  I'll be sure to tell Johnny you care."

"Uh...it's merely a matter of protocol.  Someone should stay with the victim during the extrication process."

"I could finish up with the doc and you could sit with Johnny."

Brice's eyes widened.  "No, I think Gage would feel more comfortable with you."

Crawling back into the car, Bellingham grinned.  "Hey, buddy.  I'm back.  I had to arm wrestle Brice for the opportunity to keep you entertained."

"Oh, man.  Stuck with...Brice.  Now that...would be painful."  The tarp brushed against Johnny's hand as he tried to scratch his nose, exacerbating his growing claustrophobia.  He was puzzled by his reaction.  Of all the times he had burrowed under a tarp with a victim during an extrication process, it had never bothered him before.  Then again, he hadn't been the victim on those occasions.  He tried to take a deep breath to calm his frazzled nerves, but a sharp pain in his side discouraged the action.  "Can't breathe," he mumbled.

Retrieving his stethoscope, Bellingham asked, "What do you mean?"

"Hurts to breathe.  My ribs."

Bellingham listened intently.  Was it his imagination, or were there slightly diminished breath sounds on the right side?  He removed the earpieces and casually draped the stethoscope around his neck again.  "Uh, we'll have you out of here soon.  Hang in there."

A ghost of a smile danced across Johnny's features.  "I know...both hands."

Once his patient was loaded into the ambulance, Brice jogged back to the car to update his partner.  "Dr. Early is ready to go.  I'm taking a couple of bags of NS and the HT, and I'll leave the biophone and drug box with you.  I've already updated Rampart."

Without looking up, Bellingham acknowledged the message.  "Great.  I'll see you in a few minutes."  As he watched Johnny try to brace his ribs with his uninjured arm, Bellingham sincerely prayed his suspicions about a developing pneumothorax were the merely product of his imagination.  They did not need any more problems.

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It was a rare occasion for Mike Morton to see his boss flustered.  As he passed by the base station, he saw Brackett pace back and forth, animatedly waving his hands and shouting.  "I don't understand.  How could this have happened?"

Daring to risk his superior's wrath, Morton ventured to ask, "What's wrong?"

Dixie bit her fingernail before replying.  "We're getting a couple of patients from a bad MVA."

Not comprehending the significance, the intern removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "And?"

"The first one should be arriving in a few minutes.  The fire department is still trying to extricate the other victim from the wreckage."  Dixie was having difficulty maintaining her professional composure.  "Mike, the patients are Joe and John Gage."

Morton's hand reflexively flew to his mouth.  "Oh, my God!"

It suddenly occurred to Dixie that another group of people needed to be informed of the sad news.  "Oh, dear.  I need to make another call to the guys at Station 51.  I told them Johnny was on his way, and they're expecting him to walk through the door any minute."  Picking up the phone, she wondered when or if Johnny would walk through 51's doors again.

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"So anyway," Chet bragged, "this chick was so hot..."

Marco raised his eyebrow.  "Obviously she wasn't with you."

"Hey, I can't help it if you're jealous of the Kelly charm."

"More like the Kelly curse," opined Mike.

The stocky firefighter was clearly exasperated.  "Guys!  I'm trying to tell my story."

Roy was amused by the antics of his single coworkers.  He knew there was scarcely a shred of truth to these exaggerated tales, but they were usually entertaining.  Sipping his coffee, he tried to keep a smile off his face as Chet prepared to regale them with his latest exploits.

A grim looking Captain Stanley walked over to the table.  "Men, I need your attention for a minute.  I have some bad news."  He tiredly arched his back as four expectant sets of eyes focused on him.  "That phone call was from Rampart.  Johnny has been in a serious car accident."

The men began shouting questions at once.

"What happened?"

"How badly is he hurt?"

"Is he going to be okay?"

Motioning for the anxious men to sit back down, Cap continued.  "Dr. Early was giving Johnny a ride back to the station, but on their way here, a car ran a red light and dragged them across an intersection.  Dr. Early is already on his way to the hospital, but they're still working on trying to get Johnny out.  They don't know how badly he's hurt yet.  From what I understand, the car crashed against a concrete barrier on the passenger's side.  But Dixie said he was conscious and talking to the paramedics."  He paused and looked directly at Roy.  "That's a good sign, isn't it?"

Roy could feel everyone staring at him, willing him to provide a glimmer of hope.  "I don't know.  He could be in shock and isn't aware of the full extent of his injuries yet."

Cap considered his next course of action.  "Roy, since the squad is still out of commission, it might be helpful if you drove over in your car to Rampart to keep an eye on things for us.  I'm sure they have more important things on their minds right now than providing frequent updates to a bunch of worried firefighters."

Roy mumbled a few words of thanks and hustled out the door.

"Be careful driving," Cap shouted after him.  "I don't need two paramedics in the hospital!"

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The assembled emergency team was waiting by the entrance when the Mayfair ambulance arrived.  Brackett didn't bother to wait for the attendants and flung the door wide open.  Brice automatically answered the doctor's unspoken question.  "His vital signs are stable, but he's still unconscious."

Acknowledging the information, Brackett grabbed the foot of the stretcher and helped the attendants unload their precious cargo.  As they rolled the gurney down the hall, he could barely comprehend that he had spoken to his friend less than an hour ago.  Now it seemed like an eternity.

Once inside the treatment room, Morton applied the brake, and the team smoothly transferred their patient to the exam table.  In the midst of the controlled chaos, Carol immediately began cutting away Early's clothes, while Dixie took an updated set of vital signs.

An impatient Brackett glanced in her direction.  "How do they look, Dix?"

"BP is 116/90, pulse 100, respirations 20."

"That's some good news," Morton commented as he palpated his patient's abdomen.

As the senior physician checked Early's pupils, he addressed Brice.  "You say he hasn't shown any sign of regaining consciousness?"

"No, not at all.  He's been non-responsive except to withdrawing to painful stimuli."

Brackett examined the scalp laceration and localized swelling, and then proceeded to perform a quick neurological assessment.

Morton scowled.  "Kel, looks like he has some bleeding in his belly."

"We'll need to do a peritoneal lavage."  Looking over his shoulder, Brackett started issuing a series of orders.  "Dix, get a portable x-ray down here.  He's going to need plates of the c-spine, left forearm, chest, abdomen and skull.  Carol, insert a Foley.  I want a urinalysis, CBC, trauma panel, PTT, ABG, type and cross for 3 units."  Then returning his attention to the paramedic, he pointed to the overhead cabinet.  "Let's get an NG tube in."  Brice reached for the requested item, while Morton set up a lavage tray.

If there was a silver lining to this evening's disastrous events, Brackett took small comfort in knowing his unconscious friend wasn't in pain.  With Brice's help, he threaded the nasogastric tubing in place and attached it to the room's suction.

The senior physician watched as Morton made a small incision in the Betadine prepped area, and then threaded a trocar through the opening.  There was an audible pop when the narrow tube-like instrument penetrated the fibrous tissue beneath the skin.  Once the guidewire was properly positioned, Morton removed the trocar and attached a large syringe to the catheter.

Intuitively, Brackett knew what the results would be, but for one of the few times in his career, he hoped he would be proven wrong.  Unfortunately, with unfailing certainty, blood flowed from the catheter into the attached syringe.  "Damn," he hissed.  "Dix, get Phil Mabry on the line and tell him we have a patient for him."

The x-ray technician opened the door.  "Are you guys ready for me yet?"

Removing his gloves, Brackett hastily scribbled a series of orders.  "He's all yours."  Thrusting the chart at the technician, he added, "I need these views STAT.  Let me know the minute the films are ready."  He firmly squeezed his friend's uninjured arm, and whispered into his ear.  "I'm so sorry, Joe."

Heading toward the door, Brackett turned back.  "Mike, write up orders for a head CT scan.  I don't want to overlook anything.  If you need me, I'll be at the base station."

Everyone in the treatment room was eerily quiet.  They knew which call Brackett was waiting for.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

After an agonizing twenty minutes, Station 16's firefighters had finished cutting away the roof of the Mercedes.  Because of Johnny's severely fractured femur and the possibility of pelvic injuries, Bellingham wanted to minimize movement as much as possible.  After positioning Johnny on the short backboard, he double-checked the IV, oxygen mask, arm splint and pressure dressings.  Satisfied his charge was relatively stable, he shifted his position while Paul cut the seat braces.

The loud noise from the air chisel startled Johnny, and he reflexively struggled to move away from the ear-splitting cacophony.  Lightly resting his hand on Johnny's chest, Bellingham tried to reassure his distressed friend.  "We'll have you out of here in a minute," he shouted.  "You doing okay?"

Johnny's eyes rolled back, and his lashes fluttered.  "Hurts...wanna...sleep."

"No way, José.  We've already had his conversation."

Although Bellingham tried to secure the seat as much as possible, the vibration from the equipment exacerbated the searing pain in Johnny's pelvic region and leg.  After screaming an impressive array of profanities, the injured paramedic glared at his colleague.

Bellingham wryly muttered under his breath.  "That's one way to get you to wake up."

A few seconds later, Paul severed the last brace, and the deafening noise mercifully ceased.  He rested his gloved hand on the back of the seat.  "Hey, Bob.  We're ready to pull this out whenever you are."

"I'm ready."  Bellingham playfully tousled Johnny's hair.  "Okay, buddy.  Just another couple of..."  His voice trailed off as Johnny's eyes slid shut again.  "C'mon, man.  We're in the home stretch."

Paul removed the detached portion of the bucket seat with one seemingly fluid motion, while Rick stood by with the long backboard.

"Perfect.  Ya done good, Paul."  Directing his comments to the other man, Bellingham pointed to the space behind his now unconscious patient.  "Rick?  I need you to slide the board right here and prop the other end against the back seat."  Bellingham was concerned about Johnny's deteriorating condition.  As soon as they moved him out of the car, he was going to take another set of vital signs.

The two men slid Johnny up onto the long backboard, and then carefully lifted him onto the trunk.  "Rick, I'm going to need..."  Before he finished his sentence, the baby-faced probie was already handing him a cardboard leg splint.  Bellingham inwardly smiled.  If only Brice were so charming and pleasant to work with.  Once the femur was splinted, Bellingham obtained a new set of vital signs.  They were not encouraging.

He mechanically accepted the biophone receiver thrust into his hand.  "Rampart, this is Squad 16..."

Brackett's voice interrupted his transmission.  "Go ahead, 16."

Slightly unnerved by the doctor's extraordinarily prompt response, Bellingham continued.  "Victim #2 has been extricated, and we have new vital signs.  BP is 72/50, pulse is 130 and respirations are 36 and shallow.  There appears to be slightly decreased lung sounds on the right side.  Victim lost consciousness a couple of minutes ago, and is not responsive except to painful stimuli."

"10-4, Squad 16.  Have you splinted the fractures yet?

"That's affirmative, Rampart."

An audible sigh echoed through the biophone's receiver.  "What is your ETA?"

"About 10-12 minutes."

"Start a second IV of Normal Saline and transport as soon as possible.  Transmit new vital signs every five minutes or sooner as condition warrants."

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Bellingham could have sworn Brackett had aged about ten years since he last spoke to him.  He confirmed the orders and signed off.

Accepting the ordered IV solution and paraphernalia from Rick, Bellingham spoke to his friend in hushed tones.  "Sorry for turning you into a voodoo doll, man.  Too bad you're not awake to observe my superior technique."

Unfortunately, Johnny wasn't able to appreciate the humor.  Swabbing his friend's arm with an alcohol prep pad, Bellingham would have given anything for a snide remark.  Instead, he was met with stony silence as he slid the needle into a vein.

Satisfied that the IV was flowing properly, Bellingham and the young probie gently transferred their injured colleague to the awaiting stretcher.  Almost immediately, the gurney was in motion.  Rick trotted alongside the attendants, carrying the drug box and biophone.  When everyone was situated inside the ambulance, Rick handed the items to Bellingham.

"I'll drive the squad in for you," the peach-fuzz faced firefighter volunteered.  "I'll let Cap know."  Rick closed the ambulance door, giving it two emphatic slaps to signal the driver to proceed to Rampart.

In the harsh light of the ambulance, Johnny's dark hair and lashes contrasted starkly against his pale complexion.  Preparing to take another set of vital signs, Bellingham noticed an alarming development.  Not only were Johnny's breaths becoming labored, his lips had assumed a slightly bluish hue.  Undraping the stethoscope from his neck, Bellingham silently cursed.  As he listened to Johnny's lungs, he detected markedly diminished breath sounds on the right side.  He instinctively looked out the window, mentally recalculating their ETA.  They wouldn't reach Rampart for another six minutes.  Picking up the biophone, he contacted the hospital to advise them of this latest development.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Dixie mutely stood at the doorway of the base station.  Sensing her presence, Brackett turned his head.  "I guess you heard."

"Yeah.  And to think about an hour ago, we were talking to them like it was any other day."

The physician was conspicuously quiet.

"What's the matter, Kel?"

A thoroughly dejected Brackett folded his arms across his chest.  "That's the problem, Dix.  It wasn't any other day.  I confronted Joe about his headaches this afternoon.  I sent him home early, and it's my fault he was even in traffic at the time.  If he hadn't been on his way home, and Johnny hadn't needed a ride..."

"Oh, Kel!  You had no idea this was going to happen."  Dixie lightly rested her hand on his arm.  "Did you wake up this morning and say to yourself, 'I'm going to make my best friend have a car accident today?'"

"You're being ridiculous."

"I'm being realistic.  You have a job to do, and you can't if you're preoccupied with a misplaced sense of guilt."

He grudgingly smiled.  "I hate it when you're right."

Dixie unsuccessfully attempted not to appear too smug.  "I usually am."

Rubbing his temples, Brackett asked, "Is Treatment Room 4 set up?"

"Yup.  Even have several units of Johnny's blood type on hand, and Melinda has the portable x-ray ready to go."

"Great.  Johnny is going to need a chest tube as soon as he gets here, so get that set up.  Page Andy Talbot from orthopedics, and call Surgery to find out find out who's available..."

"Jake Greeley.  Both are already on the way."

Pleased to see she had things under control, as usual, the doctor turned toward the door.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

In a peculiar reprise, the emergency team awaited the arrival of another valued friend and colleague.  The Mayfair ambulance had scarcely backed into the emergency bay when the staff descended upon it en masse.  Once again, Brackett opened the door before the attendants scrambled out of the ambulance.  However, this time, they weren't afforded the luxury of a patient in relatively stable condition.  His first glimpse into the vehicle was that of Bellingham manually ventilating Johnny with a bag-valve mask.

Brackett jumped into the back of the ambulance.  "What the hell happened?"

Without looking up, Bellingham answered, "He went into respiratory arrest as we were pulling in the driveway.  Breath sounds on the right side are significantly reduced, and there's tracheal deviation."

Snapping his fingers, Brackett shouted to the attendants.  "C'mon.  Let's move it!"

The moment the stretcher's wheels hit the ground, the team was in motion.  Bellingham rode on the lower railing while he continued to bag Johnny.  Upon reaching their destination, the treatment room erupted into a flurry of activity as they transferred their patient to the hospital's gurney.

Morton bathed Johnny's right side in Betadine, while Dixie divested Johnny of his clothing.  Carol took a new set of vital signs.

Pulling the prepared tray closer, Brackett's brow creased in grim concentration.  "How do they look?"

Carol deflated the blood pressure cuff.  "BP is 66/40, pulse is 130 irregular and weak."

Brackett rattled off a series of rapid-fire orders while he completed a cursory exam.  "Hook him up to an EKG monitor, increase those IVs to wide open, then get a CBC, trauma panel, PTT and ABG.  As soon as Dr. Morton finishes evaluating the pelvic injuries, put a Foley in and get a urinalysis.  We're also going to need x-rays of the c-spine, chest, right humerus, right femur and pelvis.  Oh yeah, get one of the right knee, too.  Mike, start a central line, insert an NG tube and set up for a peritoneal lavage."  Picking up a scalpel from the tray, Brackett glanced up at Dixie.  "Jake's on his way, right?"

"Right.  He should be here any minute."

Brackett grunted his acknowledgement.  After making a three-centimeter incision between the fifth and sixth ribs, he inserted a curved hemostat to puncture the pleura and intercostal muscles.  He stuck his gloved finger into the wound to confirm proper placement and separated the linings of the lung.  Then he pushed the chest tube into the opening, forcing it through the layers of tough fibrous tissue until the resistance abruptly ceased.  There was a loud pop, followed by a snakelike hiss of rushing air.  Satisfied everything was in order, he attached the tube to a Pleur-Evac to allow air to escape from the pleural cavity, while preventing more from seeping in.  By the time he sutured the tube in place and covered the wound with Vaseline-soaked gauze, Morton had the central line in place.

The treatment room door swung open, and Dr. Greeley's deep baritone voice boomed over the din.  "What do you have, Kel?"

"Possible pelvic fracture and ruptured bladder.  We haven't had a chance to get the films yet, but the patient was complaining of pelvic pain at the scene, and there's significant distention."

Lifting the sheet draped across Johnny's naked form, Dr. Greeley examined the affected area.  "Hmm.  What do his vitals look like?"

"They've deteriorated since extrication.  He suffered a pneumothorax, and was in respiratory arrest upon arrival.  Since we put a chest tube in, his color has improved, the tachycardia is subsiding and he's trying to breathe on his own.  Dix?"

"I'm on it."  Dixie anxiously watched the bar of mercury fall.  "Okay, BP is now 80/64, pulse 108 and regular, respiration rate up to 16 and being assisted."

"Earle's sign is positive.  Probably a ruptured bladder."  Dr. Greeley returned the sheet to its original position.  "If his vital signs remain stable, I want to get a retrograde cystogram before taking him to surgery.  Otherwise, we'll have to improvise."

Brackett was peeling off his gloves when the orthopedic surgeon arrived.  "Hey, Andy.  I was beginning to think you had forgotten about us."

The red-haired physician groaned.  "Sorry, I was on my way to the stairs when I was intercepted.  One of the new surgical nurses hasn't learned how to read my writing yet, and needed clarification of a post-op order."

"You mean those hieroglyphics?  Geez, Andy.  You're going to give doctors a bad name."  Tossing the gloves into the waste receptacle, Brackett motioned toward the door with a toss of his head.  "I was about to send the x-ray tech in.  Do you want me to hold off for a minute?"

"Nah.  Melinda can be taking pictures while you bring me up to speed."  Dr. Talbot impishly added, "Besides, it will save me the trouble of having to read your handwriting."

Brackett opened the door to admit the x-ray technician, and saw three very worried paramedics waiting outside.  The corners of his mouth twitched as he addressed the physicians.  "Guys, why don't you wait for me at the nurses' station.  I'll be there in a minute."

Roy was the first to step forward.  "Doc?  What's going on?  How are they?"

Leaning against the wall, Brackett collected his thoughts.  "Joe's still in surgery.  He sustained a broken radius and ulna, rib fractures, internal bleeding and a head injury.  I haven't seen the CT films yet, so I don't know whether we're dealing with anything more serious than a concussion at this point."

"What about Johnny?" Bellingham asked.  "Did you have to put him on a respirator?"

"No, once we got a chest tube in, his vital signs improved.  As soon as the x-ray tech is finished, Johnny will be heading to surgery."

"Did he fracture his pelvis?"

"Probably.  We'll have to wait for the results of the x-rays to be sure.  Dr. Greeley is reasonably certain the bladder has ruptured."  Brackett crossed his arms.  "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to meet with the orthopedic surgeon before the films are ready."

Brice fumbled with the HT.  "Thank you, Dr. Brackett."

After the doctor left, the three men awkwardly stared at the floor.  Roy was the first to break the uncomfortable silence.  "Um, guys.  Thanks for everything.  I really appreciate it."

Bellingham slumped against the spot Brackett had recently vacated.  "Yeah...well...  I just hope everything turns out okay, you know?"

The fair-haired paramedic nervously rubbed the back of his neck.  "What do you mean?  What else is wrong?"

"Uh...he has a broken humerus and a couple of broken ribs.  You heard about the pelvis."  Bellingham hesitated.  "Man, the femur was a bloody mess.  Compound fracture.  It was ugly."

Brice weighed in with his professional opinion.  "From what I understand, either the fractured pelvis or femur could be a career-ending injury."

Roy's face reddened.  "Johnny is going to be okay."

Firmly pulling Brice by the arm, Bellingham scolded his partner.  "Didn't your mama ever teach you, 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all'?  C'mon, we need to report in and head back to the station before you say something else stupid.  If you can behave yourself on the way back, maybe I'll let you re-alphabetize the drug box again."

Her task completed, the x-ray technician pushed the door open and wheeled the equipment into the hall.  Roy waited until she reached the corner before he surreptitiously entered the treatment room.  His heart sank when he saw his injured partner buried under the vast array of wires and tubes.  Even though he was an experienced paramedic, it was always different when the victim was someone you knew and cared about.  Roy couldn't decide whether Johnny really looked that young and fragile, or if he himself had aged that much over the past hour.

A familiar noise startled him, and he quickly turned around.  Brackett re-entered the room, flanked by the two doctors he saw earlier.  The emergency room physician reluctantly delivered the news.  "Roy, we need to take care of a few things before we send Johnny to surgery.  You'll need to step outside.  You can wait for Johnny upstairs, okay?"

No, it wasn't okay, but Roy knew the rules.  He reached through the side rail and tightly squeezed Johnny's hand.  "You're going to be all right, Johnny."  Roy wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to convince.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Physically and emotionally drained, Brackett sank into his chair and propped his feet on his desk.  Both of his friends were in surgery, and he felt helpless waiting for information from the confines of his office.  Normally, he'd try to arrange for someone to cover for him so he could scrub in and observe, but the department was already working with a skeleton crew.  He was sipping a cup of steaming hot coffee when a persistent knock on the door interrupted his respite.

Annoyed at the intrusion, Brackett set the ceramic mug aside and practically growled his response.  "Come in."

A young man in scrubs man cautiously approached the exhausted physician.  "Dr. Brackett?  I brought the CT films of Joe Early that you requested."

Rising to his feet, the physician accepted the large brown envelope.  "Thanks for saving me a trip."

Brackett snapped the films onto the light box and flipped on the switch.  Scanning the images, his eyes drifted toward an abnormality in the occipital lobe.  For a fleeting moment, a wave of nausea washed over him.  Under the circumstances, he had assumed the scan might have detected a subdural hemorrhage or other evidence of head trauma.  He certainly didn't expect to see this.  His fingers absently traced the large dark mass.  What the hell was it, a tumor?  And if so, was it malignant?

He recalled their last conversation about Early's headaches, and seethed with anger.  Damn it, the man was a neurosurgeon for crying out loud!  How could he have so glibly discounted the significance of his symptoms?  Before automatically diagnosing himself with migraines, he should have ruled out other more serious possibilities.

Soon his fury abated, only to be replaced by guilt.  If only he had pressed the issue months ago.  He should have known something was wrong, and should have insisted Early undergo a thorough evaluation.  To some degree, he was also at fault.  How could he have ignored his friend's symptoms for so long?  After all, Early worked under his supervision on a daily basis.  How could he have overlooked the chronic headaches merely because he was loath to disrupt the fragile status quo of the understaffed emergency department?  Had he essentially sold his soul by sacrificing Early's health in order to meet a budget requirement?  And what about public safety and liability issues?  Considering he wasn't always functioning at a hundred percent, was the neurosurgeon's judgment ever impaired?  If so, the hospital could have been sued out of existence.

Brackett turned off the light box.  With the damning evidence no longer illuminated to accuse him, he returned to his desk and searched for some tedious chore to take his mind off his dilemma.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Dixie gently nudged Brackett, who had fallen into a light slumber over a pile of dictation on his desk.  "Kel?"

"What?"

"Phil's here to see you."

The emergency room physician was chagrined to have drifted off.  "Sorry about that.  I guess catching up on charts would put anyone to sleep."

Dr. Mabry laughed.  "No kidding.  It's certainly more effective than Seconal."

"So how is Joe?"

"He's doing fine.  His spleen was badly ruptured, so I had to remove it.  As you know, he also had a simple fracture of his left radius and ulna, which orthopedics is handling now.  After that, he'll be going to recovery."

Brackett hesitated.  "I take it you received the report from radiology regarding the head CT?"

Dr. Mabry removed the paper surgical cap and ran his fingers through his hair.  "Yeah.  That was a total surprise.  Considering the size of the mass, I'm surprised he hasn't presented with symptoms."

Shifting uncomfortably, Brackett lowered his eyes.  "I'm not looking forward to telling him."

"I don't envy you.  I wonder if being a neurosurgeon is going to be a blessing or a curse in this case, you know?  I mean, you're not going to be able to bullshit him if the tumor is malignant."

"I've thought about that.  On the other hand, he's seen some remarkable recoveries during his career.  Hopefully the mass will be benign, and we won't have to cross that bridge."  Brackett wasn't sure whether he hoped that statement was true for his friend's benefit, or for the sake of his guilty conscience.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The evening stretched on interminably, prolonging Brackett's exercise in self-flagellation.  Part of him wanted to go home and burrow under the covers for at least a week and try to pretend this wretched day had never happened.  Paradoxically, he felt numb and yet painfully aware of his transgressions.  To his consternation, Dixie intruded upon his misery and insisted that he consume something besides black coffee.  Although he didn't feel hungry, he managed to drink a container of orange juice and nibble a few bites of the roast beef sandwich she had managed to scrounge up despite the late hour.

Somewhat appeased, Dixie moved a stack of charts aside and sat on his desk.  "Kel, I just called the OR about Johnny."

Brackett regarded her warily.  "And?"

"Jake has repaired the ruptured bladder, but they've had a difficult time keeping him stabilized.  There was a significant amount of bleeding from the fractured femur.  Andy is still working on the orthopedic injuries.  Looks like he's going to have to hold off on fixing the knee until Johnny has had a few days to recover a little."

Glancing at his watch, Brackett tried to suppress a yawn.  "My shift ends in precisely two minutes.  I think I'll wander upstairs and scrub in for a bit, and then check in on Joe."

Dixie collected the remnants of the barely touched meal and tossed them into the wastebasket.  "Want some company?"

He shook his head.  "It's late, and you're working a double shift tomorrow.  Why don't you go home and get some sleep."

"Excuse me, but so are you."

"Your point being?"

She placed her hands on her hips, striking an imposing figure.  "Kel, I appreciate the clumsy attempt at chivalry, but I've been known to survive on a few hours of sleep now and then.  Doctors don't have the market cornered on stamina and pigheadedness."

Despite the circumstances, he grinned.  "I think I've just been insulted!"

Dixie exuded the picture of innocence.  "C'mon, Superman.  Grab your red cape and let's head upstairs."  As she stood up, she winked at Brackett.  "But be careful, I understand the coffee in the waiting room is far more dangerous than kryptonite."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

A haggard Roy was anxiously pacing the floor of the surgical waiting room when Dixie and Brackett exited the elevator.  The worried paramedic rushed over to greet them.  Nervously rubbing the back of his neck, Roy addressed the new arrivals.  "I haven't heard anything since Dr. Greeley came out to talk to me.  That was about an hour ago.  He said Johnny was keeping them on their toes for a while.  Now the orthopedic surgeon is reducing the leg fracture."

Dixie took his hand into hers and smiled reassuringly.  "Andy Talbot is the best orthopedist on staff.  Johnny couldn't be in better hands."

"Yeah, but...uh...it sounds like Johnny is in rough shape.  I'm afraid one day his luck is going to run out.  I just hope that day isn't today."

Brackett stuffed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.  "Oh, I'm sure Johnny will be feeling better and chasing nurses again in no time."

Rolling her eyes in mock exasperation, Dixie agreed.  "Knowing Johnny, he'll manage to finagle a date with Cookie before he's discharged from ICU."

Roy's brow furrowed as he tried to place the name.  "Cookie?"

"Uh huh.  Johnny's latest obsession."

Noting his puzzled expression, Dixie explained the mystery.  "Her real name is Cathy Mercer, but everyone calls her Cookie."

A light bulb went off in Roy's head.  "So that's the nurse he's been swooning over for the past two weeks.  He's been driving me stark raving bananas.  During the last shift, I was almost hoping he'd be stricken with laryngitis so I could have some peace and quiet."  A lump formed in Roy's throat.  "I should have been more careful about what I wished for.  It's going to be a long time before he's back at work."  An uncomfortable silence ensued.

Dixie lightly wrapped her fingers around Roy's arm.  "Kel's officially off-duty now, so he's going to scrub in and observe.  Why don't you come downstairs with me?  I'll bet you haven't had a bite to eat all evening.  And the couch in the doctors' lounge is much more comfortable than these awful chairs.  Maybe you can sneak in a quick nap."

"No thanks.  I need to be here for Johnny."

"I was trying to make that sound like a suggestion," Dixie teased.

Brackett smiled.  "There's no use in arguing with her.  She's going to win."  Understanding Roy's reluctance to leave his partner's side, the physician gently squeezed his shoulder.  "Look, Johnny is probably going to be in surgery for a while.  I promise I'll be there as soon as there's any news."

Grudgingly, Roy followed the nurse to the elevator, but not before casting one more glance at the doors to the OR.

Part 2

In spite of the relative comfort of the well-worn couch, Roy was not able to fall asleep.  Plagued by self-doubt, he could not stop obsessing about the accident.  Why didn't he wait until he picked Johnny up from the hospital after their last call before taking the squad to the mechanic?  The rattling sound wasn't that bad.  It probably wouldn't have hurt to drive the extra two miles to swing by Rampart.  If he had any idea his decision would have stranded Johnny, leaving him at the mercy of someone else for transportation, he would have made a different choice.  His overly cautious nature had nearly gotten his best friend killed.  How could he possibly live with that knowledge?  Immersed in self-recrimination, he didn't hear the door open.

"Roy?"

The paramedic abruptly turned around as two scrub-suited figures approached him.

Brackett formally introduced the imposing figure.  "This is Dr. Talbot, Johnny's orthopedic surgeon."

Roy nervously extended his right hand in greeting.  "Roy DeSoto."  After several agonizing hours of waiting, Roy was desperate for news of his partner.  "How is Johnny?  Is he going to be okay?"

Dr. Talbot pulled up a chair and sat down.  "He's stable.  We'll keep him in recovery for about another hour before transferring him to the ICU."  He took a deep breath before he continued.  "Mr. Gage suffered a compound fracture of his right femur with significant vascular damage.  Once we got the bleeding under control, we performed an open reduction.  He also sustained a simple break to the right humerus.  That didn't require any surgery, but we're going to wait until the swelling goes down to cast the arm.  As you know, the pelvic ring fractures resulted in a ruptured bladder, which Dr. Greeley repaired earlier this evening.  Because Mr. Gage is at risk of developing peritonitis, he'll be on prophylactic antibiotics for several days.  Between the femur and pelvic injuries, Mr. Gage will be immobilized for several weeks.  We're going to hold off on repairing the ligament damage to his right knee.  At the moment, that's the least of his concerns."

The hairs on the back of Roy's neck stood on end.  "What is that supposed to mean?"

Brackett decided to field this question.  "Compound femur fractures this severe can take six months to a year to completely heal.  Johnny's rehabilitation is going to be challenging, especially since he's going to be laid up for a lengthy period."

"What do you mean by 'challenging'?"

"Some people with fractures as serious as Johnny's never return to their pre-injury level of functioning, or live with chronic pain.  The sooner an aggressive physical therapy program can be initiated, the more favorable the outcome.  Unfortunately, since Johnny sustained multiple injuries, one of which still requires surgery..."

Brice's words echoed in Roy's ears as he finished the sentence.  "That compromises his physical therapy schedule, and ultimately his recovery."

The orthopedic surgeon cleared his throat.  "Mr. DeSoto, it's certainly our goal to restore full function as soon as possible.  However, Mr. Gage has a physically demanding job.  We'll simply have to wait and see."

This was unbelievable.  Roy clenched and unclenched his fists.  Johnny's career could be over, and it was completely his fault.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Fluffing his pillow for the tenth time, Brackett enviously watched Morton's sleeping form.  Feeling personally responsible for the accident, he couldn't bring himself to go home and sleep in a comfortable bed.  Besides, he reasoned that in addition to assuaging his guilty conscience, it would be easier to keep tabs on the progress of two certain seriously injured individuals if he slept in the on-call room.  That sounded good in theory, anyway.  Thus far, all he had been able to manage was a twenty-minute catnap.  In a futile attempt to shield his eyes from the light seeping underneath the door, Brackett cradled his head in the crook of his arm.  Eventually his eyelids felt heavy, and he drifted into a light slumber.

A persistent noise soon demanded his immediate attention, and he fought to clear the cobwebs that clouded his mind.  "This better be important," he grumbled.

The young woman timidly apologized.  "I'm sorry to wake you, but Dr. Early is regaining consciousness."

Her words had the effect of throwing cold water onto his face.  Instantly alert, Brackett vigorously shook his colleague's shoulder.  "Mike, get up!"

"What?"

"Joe is waking up."

Reaching for his glasses, the intern stumbled out of bed and sprinted down the hall.  Not surprisingly, his boss was already at Early's side.

Brackett hesitantly approached the bed, his mind reeling with fears and doubts.  What if Early placed the blame for his misfortune squarely on his shoulders?  Could their friendship survive the accusations and recriminations?  Would the emotional wounds ever heal?  He swallowed almost convulsively as he summoned his resolve.  In a resonant voice that belied his anxiety, Brackett finally spoke.  "Hey, how are you feeling?"

A disoriented Early struggled to open his eyelids completely.  "What?"  His tongue felt heavy as he tried to moisten his dry lips.  "Um...thirsty."

That wasn't quite the answer Brackett was looking for, and he tried again.  "Other than that.  Any pain or nausea?"

Early grimaced.  "Yeah.  Bad headache."

The dark-haired man cringed.  Was the headache a result of the concussion?  Or was it the same headache that had preceded the accident?  "We'll get you something for that in a minute.  First, I need you to answer a few questions for me, all right?"

"Okay."

"Do you know your name?"

A slight smile tugged at doctor's mouth.  "Joe Early.  Easy."

"Do you remember what day this is?"

There was a discernable pause.  "Uh...I'm not sure.  Thursday, October 9th, I think."

Close.  That was yesterday, the day of the accident.  Brackett blew out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.  He gently prodded, "Do you know the year, and who the president is?"

"1975.  Gerald Ford."

"Do you know where you are?"

Surveying his surroundings, Early responded, "I must be at Rampart."

Morton and Brackett exchanged approving glances.  Their patient was oriented as to person, time and place.  Was the rest of his memory intact?

Propping his elbows on the cold metal railing, Brackett tentatively prompted, "Joe, do you know why you're here?"

His forehead wrinkled in concentration, Early tried to remember.  "No.  No, I can't."  Exhausted by the effort, he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Later in the morning, Brackett checked on Johnny, for the second time.  His vital signs were steadily improving, although he wasn't setting any speed records.  The latest x-rays showed that the right lung was gradually re-expanding, although it would be about a week before the chest tube could be removed.  A couple of years ago when Johnny developed a pneumothorax after a ceiling collapse, he had practically driven the nursing staff to despair when he was confined to bed while his lung re-inflated.  How was he going to accept a lengthy period of immobilization while his fractured bones healed?  And what about the extensive rehabilitation?

Brackett had difficulty reconciling the image of the pale figure in the ICU bed with the animated young man who regularly graced his emergency room.  Would he ever return to work as a paramedic?  Would he ever be able to function without disability or chronic pain?

A subtle stirring caught the doctor's attention.  "Johnny?"

Johnny turned his head toward the noise.  "Huh?"

"It's Dr. Brackett.  Can you wake up for me?"

Drifting on a cloud of morphine, Johnny was hesitant to answer.  In his drug-induced haze, the pain was tolerable.  But the voice that penetrated through the fog seemed to be tinged with sadness, and he felt compelled to respond.  His eyelids fluttered open and he blearily gazed at the man standing beside his bed.  As his vision cleared, recognition dawned.  "Doc?  What happened?"

"You were in a car accident, but you're going to be okay."

Johnny frowned as he processed the information.  "Accident?"  Horrific scenes of the crash replayed in his mind, and he tightly closed his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the images.

Mistaking his reaction for pain, Brackett was immediately concerned.  "Johnny, do you need some more morphine right now?"

The paramedic furiously shook his head back and forth.  "No, not yet."  He opened eyes again and focused on the doctor.  "How is Dr. Early?"

"He had some broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a concussion and a fractured arm, but he's going to be fine."

Johnny appeared relieved.  He scanned the partitioned cubicle, straining to lift his head off the pillow so he could see the medical paraphernalia attached to him.  "What about me?"

Brackett wasn't sure whether Johnny was asking about the extent of his injuries, or whether he, too, would be okay.  Preferring to delay any conversation about a long-term prognosis until Johnny was more coherent, the doctor decided to provide a partial answer.  "You sustained a compound fracture to the right femur, simple fracture of the right humerus, pelvic ring fractures that resulted in a ruptured bladder, as well as a couple of broken ribs.  Then, just before you arrived in the ER, your right lung collapsed, so we put in a chest tube."

"Not again," Johnny groaned.

"'Fraid so."  Brackett couldn't suppress a grin.  "If it's of any consolation, Cookie has been reassigned to the ICU.  She'll take good care of you."

His patient's face visibly brightened.  "Cookie?"

"Yeah.  Maybe you'll finally get a chance to ask her out since she's a captive audience.  But Johnny, it really wasn't necessary to go through all this trouble to get a date with Cookie.  All you had to do was ask."

"Speaking of asking..."  Johnny pointed toward his injured leg.  "Do you think I could get something for pain?  It really hurts."

Brackett paternally patted him on the hand.  "Sure.  After all, we have to get you back into top flirting condition, right?"

"Back?  Doc, I never lose the Gage magic."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Roy paced as he impatiently noted the time on his watch.  He had to wait ten more minutes before he could see Johnny again.  Usually Dixie could sneak him into the ICU outside normal visiting hours for a few minutes, or he could charm his way past the nurses, but today he had to cool his heels like everyone else.  He poured another cup of hideously strong coffee and absently held the lukewarm brew in his hands as time passed interminably.

Just as he was about to climb the walls, the double doors of the ICU flung open.  Roy haphazardly tossed the paper cup into the nearest trashcan and walked to his friend's bedside.  Although Johnny still looked appallingly fragile, it was a considerable improvement since Roy saw him in the emergency room yesterday evening.  He lightly squeezed Johnny's hand and was delighted when his friend responded to his touch.

"Roy?"

"Yeah, Johnny.  It's me.  How are you feeling?"

Johnny grimaced.  "Why does everyone ask me that when they know I feel like crap?"

The senior paramedic was surprised.  Johnny must be hurting if he wasn't even pretending he was fine.  "Do you want me to tell the nurse you need your meds?"

"Yeah."

A couple of minutes later, Roy returned with Cookie.  Despite his obvious discomfort, Johnny displayed his most charming crooked grin.

Uncapping the syringe, the willowy blonde nurse laughed.  "Johnny, what am I going to do with you?"

"Go out on a date with me?" he asked hopefully.

"We'll see.  How about a date with some morphine for now?"

He stuck out his lower lip in an impressive pout.  "I suppose I'll need that to ease the pain of your rejection."

She injected the medication into his IV port.  "I didn't exactly say no."

His eyes widened.  "So that's a yes?"

Cookie smiled enigmatically.  "We'll see," she repeated.

As soon as she left the cubicle, Roy scrutinized his partner's face.  "The pain's pretty bad, huh?"

"Yeah," Johnny admitted.  "I don't think there's a spot on my body that doesn't hurt.  I wish I could sleep until I'm a hundred percent again."

Roy inwardly winced.  Either he didn't know his prognosis was questionable, or he was overly optimistic.  Knowing Johnny's fierce determination, it could easily be the latter.

The effects of the narcotic were becoming evident, and Johnny could barely keep his eyes open.  "Hey, Roy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think not telling the truth is the same thing as telling a lie?"

The question caught him off guard.  Johnny Gage was the most honest person he knew.  What on earth was he talking about?  Roy raised an eyebrow in puzzlement.  "What do you mean?"

It was too late.  Johnny now rested peacefully in the arms of Morpheus.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The next morning, a frazzled Dixie chewed on the end of her pen.  One of her nurses had accepted a position at Harbor General for more money and less hours, and left without giving a two-week notice.  She was so tired of having to revise the staffing schedule every time she turned around.  Working for the third consecutive Saturday wasn't improving her disposition, either.

Brackett stood at the desk, scribbling yet another set of discharge orders.  "Has everyone in Los Angeles lost their marbles?  I can't believe the stupidity of some people.  So far today, I've treated a drunk high school kid who decided to add a whole new dimension to the phrase 'toasted buns' by sitting on a hot barbeque grill on a dare, a man who swallowed a balloon filled with beer in order to impress his girlfriend, a woman who tried to disinfect her toilet bowl by dousing it with gasoline and lighting a match, a kid who stuffed himself into a dryer at a laundromat and asked his so-called friends to spin him around, a guy who decided to make a necklace for his wife out of out live ammunition by punching holes in the shell casings, a little boy who decided to eat his lunch money to keep anyone from stealing it, and a woman who decided to eat a two-week old piece of fish in the refrigerator because she didn't want it to go to waste."  He stared at the clock with contempt.  "I can't believe it's not even noon yet.  It's going to be a long day, again."

Dixie set her revised paperwork aside.  "I take it you're working another double shift?"

"Yeah.  And to make matters worse, we're out of coffee in the lounge."

"Kel, there's plenty of coffee in the pantry.  I just restocked it three days ago."

"But Dix," he whined, "Sanka doesn't count.  I'm talking about real coffee."

The head nurse shook an admonishing finger at him.  "Kel, you need to cut back on caffeine anyway.  In fact, I suspect that's all you're living on, and coffee does not satisfy the recommended daily allowance of essential vitamins and minerals."

"I don't have time to eat!  We were already understaffed, and now that Joe is going to be out for God knows how long, I don't know how we're going to manage.  I can't afford to hire any more doctors, even on a contract basis."

She sympathized with the frustrated physician.  "I know.  I had another nurse leave for greener pastures.  I'm so sick and tired of juggling and re-juggling the staffing schedule.  I might as well just throw darts on a board to determine who's going to work which shifts.  It would certainly be less time-consuming and stressful."  Propping her elbows on the desk, she appeared pensive.  "I dropped by to see Joe and Johnny before my shift started."

"Oh?  I haven't made it upstairs yet.  How are they doing?"

"They're both miserable, but more alert.  Joe still doesn't remember the accident."

"That's not terribly surprising.  He sustained a nasty concussion."  Brackett closed the chart he was writing in and handed it to Dixie.  "How is Johnny?"

"He started developing a fever early this morning.  Jake suspects peritonitis.  They started him on prophylactic antibiotics during surgery, but you know Johnny.  Trouble always seems to find him anyway.  Obviously they're going to have to delay any surgery on his knee until the infection clears up."

"Shit."

"I couldn't have phrased it better myself."

Brackett grabbed another chart from the desk and read the triage nurse's notes.  "Twenty-one year old white male complains of severe rash, an apparent allergic reaction to glitter paint he applied to his..."  His voice trailed off as he read the embarrassing details.  "Dix, if the board approves our proposed budget on Wednesday, I'm tempted to hire a psychiatrist for the department."

"And how will that help the patients?"

Tucking the chart under his arm, he headed toward the treatment room.  "Who said anything about the patients?  At this rate, I'm going to be certifiably nuts by then!"

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Dr. Mabry examined his patient's surgical incision and murmured his approval.  "Joe, everything looks good.  If this keeps up, we'll probably discharge you to the surgical floor tomorrow."

"Any idea when I'll get to go home, Phil?"

"Maybe in another week or so."  The surgeon discarded the soiled dressing into the waste receptacle.  "How's the headache?"

"It's okay.  I'll live."

"I understand you've been having a lot of headaches recently.  Have you considered a neurology consult?"

Early practically spat his answer.  "No.  It's not necessary.  I know what I'm dealing with."

Per his conversation with the emergency room physician on the night of the accident, they agreed Brackett would perform the unpleasant task of breaking the news about the brain mass when he felt the time was right.  Given the neurosurgeon's reaction, Dr. Mabry was glad he had been absolved of that responsibility.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Later that evening, Johnny was desperately trying to reach the ice chips on the bedside table when the doctors entered his cubicle.  Seeing his predicament, Brackett reached for the Styrofoam cup and handed it to the distressed patient.

"Thanks, Doc.  I thought I was going to dislocate my shoulder there for a minute."

"We can't have that.  I think there's an injury limit per admission to the ICU," he joked.

Johnny mumbled around the ice chips in his mouth.  "Very funny."  He dipped the plastic spoon back into the cup.  "So when can I move into a real room with a television?  I'm sooooo bored."

Dr. Greeley flipped through the chart.  "I see your temp is still climbing and your urine output is down, not to mention the vomiting despite the anti-emetic I ordered this morning.  How is the abdominal pain?"

"Um...a little sore from tossing my cookies."

"Uh huh.  Right."  The surgeon frowned as he checked the incision.  "Still looks a little inflamed.  Hmm.  I'll have to chase down the status of the culture and blood work.  We might need to switch antibiotics or adjust your dosage.  I'll be right back.  I'm going to call the lab."

Johnny watched the surgeon slip past the white curtain and head toward the nurses' station.  Shifting his weight as much as he was able, he vainly tried to find a more comfortable position.  Finding none, he settled back against the flat pillows.  "How is Dr. Early?"

Brackett leaned against the metal railing.  "He's making good progress.  He'll probably be transferred to a regular unit in a couple of days or so."

"Any idea how long I'm going to be stuck here?"

"I can't say.  We want to keep you closely monitored until the infection is under control."

Scooping another spoon of the melting ice chips, Johnny mustered a feeble crooked grin.  "Oh, well.  I guess I'll be forced to spend more time here with Cookie."

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny."  Grinning, Brackett stuffed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.  "You never give up, do you?"

"I might as well make the best of a bad situation."

Eager to solve a mystery that had been nagging at him for the past couple of days, Brackett posed his question.  "Speaking of which, do you remember the accident?"

"Some.  Bits and pieces, mostly."

The physician crossed his arms across his chest.  "Bellingham and Brice said you were...reluctant to let go of the steering wheel.  In fact, you were pretty belligerent about it.  What was that all about?"

Johnny stared at the icy slush.  "Um...I dunno."

"Are you sure?" Brackett asked dubiously.

"Yeah."

"I see.  Do you routinely grab the steering wheel when Roy drives the squad?"

Johnny's expression darkened.  "No, of course not!  It's...uh..."  Crap.  Brackett could be tenacious, and he felt trapped.  Why couldn't he have just let go of the steering wheel before the emergency personnel arrived on the scene, or in his confused state, why couldn't he have stopped babbling about it?  Handing the Styrofoam cup back to the doctor, Johnny muttered his apologies.  "It's all my fault.  I could see the other car about to run the red light.  I didn't act quickly enough and nearly got us killed.  If I would have paid closer attention, or my reflexes had been faster, I could have gotten the car out of the way in time."

Which brought them back to another nagging question.  "But why was it your responsibility if Dr. Early was driving?"

"Um...it was getting dark, and the other driver didn't have his headlights on and..."

"But you saw it," Brackett countered.

While Johnny wrestled with his conscience, Brackett pieced the puzzle together.  "Dr. Early didn't see the oncoming car, did he?  Is that why you felt it was your responsibility to take control of the situation?"

Tears welled up in Johnny's eyes.  "Doc, I'm so sorry.  I didn't want to get him into trouble."

"It's okay, he's not in trouble and neither are you.  In fact, you did him a huge favor.  The whole situation is beginning to make more sense now.  Get some rest.  I'll be back later."

Johnny turned away and pressed his face against his pillow.  Warm, salty tears spilled onto the rough fabric as his silently cursed himself for his betrayal of a friend.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Brackett's mind raced as he headed toward his colleague's bed on the opposite side of the ICU desk.  Of course, it made perfect sense.  Given the location of the mass in Early's occipital lobe, the tumor had probably caused a peripheral field defect.  But for how long, and to what extent?  Did the visual loss precede the headaches, or vice versa?  He needed to order a neurosurgical consultation as soon as possible.  His mind scrolled through the list of possibilities.  Normally he'd ask Joe for his professional opinion, but that wasn't an option since he was the patient.  Besides, he wasn't sure he trusted Joe's judgment anymore.  How could the man have a brain tumor of that size and not know it?

Clutching the chart tightly against his chest, he stood beside Early's bed.  "Joe?"

"Hmm?"

"Joe, wake up.  I need to talk to you."

"Whatimizzit?"

"It's time for you to wake up.  C'mon."

Threading his good arm through the tangle of IV tubing and monitor wires, Early attempted to wipe the gummy sleepers from his eyes.  "What do you want?"

Brackett set the hospital chart on the small bedside stand.  "I want to talk to you about the accident."

"I told you.  I don't remember."

"Okay, what is the last thing you remember about that day?"

Early considered the question for several moments.  "I had a headache and took some aspirin as soon as I got to work."

"Do you recall a conversation we had in my office?"

"No, should I?"  Early was becoming suspicious.  "Kel, why can't I remember?  Retrograde amnesia?"

Scanning the cramped quarters, Brackett's sight alighted upon an adjustable stool.  He dragged it over to the side of the bed and wearily sat down.  "Joe, you sustained a moderate concussion, which could account for your memory lapse.  When you were brought in, we performed a full skull series and a CT scan before you were taken to surgery.  While the films didn't show any fractures or brain trauma, it did reveal an unexpected finding."

"Such as?"

There was no easy way to say this.  "Joe, a large mass was detected in your occipital lobe."

"What?  But that's not possible!"

In his most calming voice, Brackett said, "I know this comes as a huge shock.  But in retrospect, your headaches have become progressively worse.  I'm guessing you have a significant peripheral visual field defect, probably a contralateral hemianopsia, judging by the location.  That would explain why Johnny thought you didn't see the car run the red light.  I'm going to make arrangements for Sam Vance to evaluate you.  As soon as..."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I don't want an evaluation.  I don't intend to undergo surgery or any other treatment."

Stunned, Brackett tried to reason with him.  "Okay.  Fine.  We don't have to do this immediately.  This can wait a few days until you're feeling better."

"No."

"Damn it, Joe.  Why not?  Give me one good reason I shouldn't schedule a consultation."

Early pounded the mattress with his right fist.  "I should have died in that stupid wreck.  I could have killed Johnny or someone else because I can't diagnose my way out of a paper bag."

"Joe..."

The neurosurgeon refused to be consoled.  "Please go.  I need some time alone."

Feeling depressed, Brackett quietly left the room.  He had a horrible premonition this nightmare was far from over.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

On Monday morning, Johnny was sipping apple juice through a straw when Roy unexpectedly sneaked in.  Amused by his partner's furtive movements, he feigned mock horror.  "They're gonna throw you out if they see you."

Blushing, Roy handed Johnny several magazines.  "I'm here through Cookie's good graces.  I brought a huge box of chocolates for the nursing staff, so she persuaded them to let me slither in for a few minutes before I report for work."

"Tsk, tsk.  I can't believe you resorted to bribery."

"Flattery works wonders, too.  Unfortunately, I don't have the Gage charm, or I'd get to see you more often."

Seized by a sudden bout of coughing, Johnny sloshed some of the juice onto his hospital gown.  "Oh, man.  Not again!"

Roy grabbed a couple of tissues and starting dabbing at the damp attire.  "Not again?  You're making a habit of drowning yourself these days?"

"Not exactly," Johnny rasped.  "I've sort of been christening the linens in other ways."

"Uh oh.  Still vomiting?"

"Yeah."  Johnny dejectedly stared at the chest tube.  "I'll be glad when they cut me loose from the garden hose and Wet-Vac.  It hurts like hell when I cough."  As if to underscore that point, Johnny erupted into another fit of wet-sounding coughs.

Instinctively pressing his hand against his friend's forehead, Roy was alarmed at the intense heat radiating off of him.  "Geez, Johnny.  You're burning up!"

"You think?"

Roy ignored the sarcastic remark.  "I thought your doctor was going to change your antibiotics."

"He did.  Right before I started working on this case of pneumonia."

Crap.  Johnny did not need another complication.  Roy attempted a half-hearted smile.  "Another infection?  I can't believe you're resorting to such desperate measures just so you can stay here a few more days to pester Cookie."

Johnny laughed weakly.  "Aw, shucks, Roy.  You've figured me out."  Unable to ignore the building ticklish sensation in his lungs, he launched into another vicious coughing attack.  When the episode passed, Johnny sank back against his pillows.  "Oh, man.  That hurt."

"Do you need something for pain?"

"Yeah, in a minute.  I need to tell you something first."

"What?"

The injured paramedic lowered his voice to a near whisper.  "I couldn't stop the accident.  It's my fault."

Roy was incredulous.  "Johnny, that's absurd.  A drunk driver was responsible.  There's nothing you could have done."

"You don't understand.  It was my fault."  Johnny nervously chewed on his lower lip, already regretting his decision to bring up the subject.  He motioned toward the nurses' station.  "Could you ask Cookie to come here?  With a shot of morphine?"

"Okay, Johnny.  I need to run anyway.  But we're not finished talking about this."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Station 51's temporary paramedic, Gabriel Martinez, was mopping the kitchen floor when a blood-curdling scream pierced the air.

Marco cringed.  "Uh oh.  Sounds like the Shadow and the Phantom are at it again."

Wiping his hands on a dishtowel, Mike agreed.  "I'm not sure whether I should be glad Chet is getting a taste of his own medicine, or feel sorry for him."

Chet's voice bellowed throughout the station.  "Martinez!  I'm gonna kill you for this!"

Captain Stanley frowned sternly.  "Martinez, what did you do this time?"

Gleefully rubbing his hands together, Gabriel mimicked a phrase from an old radio show.  "'Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?  The Shadow knows!'  Bwahahahaha!"

The irate firefighter flew into the day room, spouting an impressive array of expletives.  "Damn it, Gabriel.  I just cleaned the latrine."

A bewildered Roy watched the proceedings.  "What happened?"

"He lined the toilet bowl with Saran Wrap again and I peed all over myself!"

Setting the lid back on the spaghetti pot, Mike chuckled.  "Cap, aren't firefighters supposed to be housebroken?"

"Housebroken?" Chet sputtered.  "It wasn't my fault!  This is the second time Martinez has pulled this stupid prank."

Gabriel shrugged.  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Placing his hands on his hips in a reasonable facsimile of a menacing stance, Captain Stanley growled.  "Martinez, go clean the latrine."

"Aw, Cap..."

"Don't 'Aw, Cap' me, or you'll be on latrine duty for the duration of your assignment here."

Grumbling under his breath, Gabriel slung the mop over his shoulder and picked up the bucket.  "I'm going, I'm going."

Marco stroked his mustache.  "You know, it's too bad Johnny isn't here to see the Phantom get his just desserts."

"Yeah," Mike agreed.  "Especially the perfumed water bomb.  That was a classic.  Chet reeked of Heaven Scent the whole shift.  He took so many showers to get rid of the smell, I thought he was going to turn into a prune."

Captain Stanley sat down at the kitchen table and directed his question at Roy.  "Speaking of Johnny, how is he doing?"

Roy flinched at the memory of the morning's visit.  "Not too good.  In addition to all of his injuries, Johnny has developed peritonitis and pneumonia.  He's putting up a good front, but he must feel awful."

"How much is that going to set his recovery back?" Mike asked.

"I don't know.  From what I understand, it's going to be pretty rough.  It may be a long time before his leg heals."

The room was chillingly silent for several minutes as they contemplated their friend's plight.  Marco was the first to give voice to their fears.  "He is coming back, isn't he?"

A lump formed in Roy's throat.  "God, I hope so."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Later that evening, Johnny tried to follow Dr. Greeley's instructions for the examination.  Something about taking a deep breath.  Riiiiight.  That was a scream.  The humidified oxygen helped a little, but it was still exhausting trying to force air into his congested lungs.  All he wanted to do was sleep.  If only people would leave him alone.  At least the surgeon had ordered an arterial line.  He was in constant pain, and would not have appreciated the additional indignity of being awakened every few hours so someone could stab him for blood gasses.  Then again, he reasoned he deserved to suffer.  This was his punishment for causing the accident.  He was almost disappointed when a nurse injected something into his IV port.  Of course.  Dr. Greeley had ordered the shot of morphine.  Johnny was furious with the doctor for depriving him of the pain he needed to atone for his sins.  Before he could express his anger, the powerful effects of the narcotic overtook him, and he quickly fell asleep.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Two days later, Brackett frantically stuffed a plethora of paperwork into his already bulging briefcase as he prepared for his meeting with the board of directors.  He was determined to obtain additional funding for his department if it killed him.  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he retrieved a roll of Tums.  Popping two of the chalky tablets into his mouth, he rummaged for the pièce de résistance.  Ah, there it was!  He collected the colorful charts and graphs he had prepared, at his own expense.  If only he could afford to pay doctors and nurses and buy desperately needed new medical equipment out of his personal funds.

He instinctively picked up his coffee cup for one last caffeine fix before he headed to his meeting.  Damn.  Empty again.  Fine.  Since he was paying for things out of his own pocket, he'd buy himself a percolator and a large can of Folgers.  Brackett grinned at his ingenious plan.  No more scrambling for a hot cup of java for him!

On one bright note today, Joe had finally agreed to be evaluated by a neurosurgeon.  Perhaps his good luck would hold for the rest of the morning.  Taking a deep breath, he grabbed his briefcase and headed toward the boardroom.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Johnny blanched at the foul tasting medication he was forced to inhale with the nebulizer.  Yuck!  Some of Chet's vile health food concoctions tasted better than this!  He glared at the respiratory therapist.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Gage.  I'm afraid it doesn't come in flavors yet."

"How come we can put a man on the moon, but we can't make medicine taste good?" he grumbled.  The gagging sensation provoked a violent coughing spell, bringing up copious amounts of colorful mucous.  At least the removal of the chest tube had made this unpleasant process slightly more bearable.

Holding the emesis basin under Johnny's chin, the respiratory therapist waited for the attack to subside.  "Are you done?"

"I hope so," Johnny whined.  "Are you done?"

"Yeah, for now.  You know me, though.  I keep turning up like a bad penny.  Say in about another four hours?"

"I can't wait."

The man snickered as he replaced the oxygen mask.  "Hey, I'm a popular guy.  What can I say?"

"Hopefully 'good-bye'."

Roy tried to adopt a severe expression as he slipped into the cubicle.  "Giving the medical staff a hard time again, Johnny?"

"Who me?"

"Yes, you."

"Nah.  I've been a good boy this time."  The bitter taste of medication lingered in Johnny's mouth, and he reached for his glass of water.  As he slipped the straw under the oxygen mask, he became pensive.  "That's not completely true.  I did something bad a few days ago."

"Oh?"

Johnny's muffled voice was tinged with despair.  "I told Brackett something I shouldn't have."

His partner was thoroughly confused.  "What do you mean?"

"He was bugging me about the accident, and I sort of slipped up."

"I don't understand."

Clearly exasperated that his partner wasn't following his logic, Johnny tried again.  "He asked me about the stupid steering wheel, and I told him I didn't think Early ever saw the other car.  That's why I was trying to steer us out of the way."

"So?"

"So what if Early was drunk, too?  Or what if he was on drugs or something?  He could be in serious trouble!"

Roy was skeptical.  "Johnny, your overactive imagination is working overtime.  Maybe he didn't feel well, or hadn't gotten much sleep.  You know how short-handed the emergency department has been for the past few months.  Early has been putting in a lot of hours like everyone else.  Or maybe he had something on his mind, or was even sort of daydreaming for a minute.  I think you're reading way too much into this."

Unconvinced, Johnny continued to brood.

Mentally slapping himself, Roy realized that in typical Gage fashion, his friend was trying to assume responsibility for events beyond his control.  Why was Johnny obsessing over this anyway?  After all, the accident was his fault, too.  By stranding Johnny at the hospital, he had unwittingly set the whole tragic chain of events in motion.  Why was Johnny so eager to accept the blame?  For the life of him, Roy couldn't imagine why anyone would do that.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

After he finished hanging hose, Chet was delighted to detect the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.  His mouth was already watering in anticipation.

Mike opened the pantry and handed him a ceramic mug.  "Do you have big plans for the weekend?"

"Sort of.  I might go to a horror movie film festival tomorrow with Jerry from Station 116."  Chet poured a cup of the hot brew.  "It's a shame no one here has sophisticated taste like me.  You guys don't know what you're missing."

Gabriel wiped doughnut crumbs from his moustache.  "I'd hardly call cheesy horror flicks sophisticated."

"Oh, yeah?  Well, it's a whole lot better than those stupid space show re-runs you watch about the guy with the pointy ears.  I can't believe you waste your time going to those Star Trek conventions.  For crying out loud, the show was cancelled years ago.  Get over it."  Sitting down at the table, Chet opened the white bakery box.  "Aw, Martinez.  You ate the last doughnut!"

"Hey, man.  You snooze, you lose."  Picking up the empty container, Gabriel tossed it into the trashcan.  "There are some Oreos in the cookie jar.  I think someone from the last shift brought them.

Chet's eyes lit up.  "Oreos?  All right!"  He eagerly walked over to the counter and lifted the lid.  "Oooooh.  There's only two left."  Setting his coffee cup aside, he untwisted a cookie and scraped the creamy filling off with his teeth.  Almost immediately, Chet made a face and spat the foul tasting icing into the sink.  "Martinez!"

By the time the scream died down, Gabriel had already made a hasty retreat.

"Are you okay?" Mike asked.

"Yeah, but you better get Roy in here.  Our temporary paramedic is gonna need a paramedic after I get through with him."  Chet rinsed his mouth with a swig of coffee.  "The Shadow set me up.  He switched the filling with Pepsodent toothpaste."

"Look at the bright side.  You won't get cavities from eating cookies this way."  Sensing his friend's gloomy mood, Mike hastily apologized.  "I'm sorry about that, Chet."

"Nah, it's okay.  I just never realized what a giant pain in the butt practical jokes were before.  You know, ever since Johnny got hurt, I could kick myself for every mean prank I've pulled on him.  I swear, if he ever comes back..."

"It's not a matter of if, but when," Mike reminded him.

Chet blinked back a tear for his fallen pigeon.  "Yeah.  Right.  When."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The orthopedist reviewed the latest results with Johnny.  "Mr. Gage, I'm afraid the x-rays of your pelvis show very minimal change.  I know it's still early, but usually we see more of an improvement at this point.  We'll repeat the x-rays on a weekly basis to monitor your progress."

Johnny considered the information.  "So how long do you think it will be before I graduate from these piddly bedside physical therapy sessions to the real thing?"

Dr. Talbot pushed his glasses up on his nose.  "It depends on how quickly the fractures heal.  We'll have to wait and see."

Pointing toward the cast, Johnny asked, "How long am I gonna be stuck with this?"

"Possibly about six weeks or so."

Reaching under the oxygen mask, Johnny scratched his nose.  "How long before I can go back to work?"

The doctor looked up from writing in the chart.  "You're a firefighter, right?"

Johnny quickly clarified, "Firefighter/paramedic."

Dr. Talbot smiled at the correction.  "Sorry.  The physical requirements for your job must be pretty demanding."

A red flag went up in Johnny's mind, and he pulled the oxygen mask away from his face.  "What are you getting at?  Are you saying my career is over?"

"No, not necessarily.  But I believe you need to be realistic about your rehabilitation.  Severe femur fractures usually take about six months to a year to completely heal.  Unfortunately, you sustained several injuries, each of which could prove problematic.  Also, aside from making you generally miserable, the peritonitis and pneumonia are slowing an already difficult recovery."

Johnny was overcome with a spine-chilling sense of foreboding.  Had his luck finally run out?  Had he used up all of his nine lives?  For the first time since his ordeal began, Johnny realized his life as he knew it, could be over.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Nine days after the accident, the emergency room settled into an uneasy routine.  The hospital board had refused to authorize additional funds for the department, much to Brackett's consternation.  To make matters worse, they actually further reduced his budget, forcing him to consider another round of layoffs.  His argument that inadequate staffing could seriously compromise patient care fell on deaf ears, even when he pointed out that their decision could result in costly lawsuits against the hospital.  He was reviewing the new budget when a loud knock interrupted his concentration.  "Come in," he grumbled.

A tall, lanky man opened the door.  "Kel, do you have a sec?"

Brackett stood up and motioned for him to have a seat.  This wasn't a promising development when your friend's neurosurgeon personally paid you a visit rather than call you on the phone.  A dozen possibilities flashed through his head, none of them good.  The corners of his mouth twitched slightly as they usually did when he was worried.  "What's up?"

Sam Vance absent-mindedly fingered his wedding ring.  "I'll start with the good news, relatively speaking.  Joe finally agreed to the arteriogram, and we performed it this morning.  The mass is a meningioma.  It appears to be benign, and it's certainly operable.  I believe his prognosis is excellent.  It's possible Joe won't even require any radiation or chemo."

Brackett nearly wilted with relief.  The lesion probably wasn't cancerous.  In some warped way, a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.  Now that the problem was diagnosed, the tumor would be removed, life would return to normal, and his complicity in the cover up would soon be forgotten.  But the scowl on the neurosurgeon's face indicated there was more to the story.  "What's the problem?"

"Joe refuses to consent to the surgery."

"What?"

"He doesn't want the tumor removed, but he won't explain why."

"I don't believe this!" Brackett exclaimed.  "What on earth is he thinking?  If he weren't already in a hospital bed, I'd put him there myself!"

Seeking to soothe the frustrated physician, Dr. Vance responded in a calm, measured timbre.  "Kel, I can't perform the surgery for a while anyway.  Joe needs time to recover from his current injuries.  Maybe he just needs to come to terms with this in his own way."

"Yeah.  I suppose you're right."  As the neurosurgeon stood up, Brackett shook his hand.  "Thanks for coming by.  I appreciate it."

"No problem.  I'll stay in touch."

The gnawing sensation in his stomach intensified, and Brackett automatically reached into his pocket for the ever-present roll of antacids.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Entering the familiar cubicle, Roy cringed as his squeaking boots loudly announced his arrival.  Johnny appeared to be asleep, and he hoped the high-pitched noise did not disturb his friend's slumber.  Clutching the HT in one hand, he pulled the molded plastic chair closer to Johnny's bedside.  He had a sneaking suspicion the hospital furnished the ICU with hideously uncomfortable furniture in order to discourage visitors from overstaying their allotted time.

Fortunately, the nursing staff was becoming more lenient about visiting hours.  Between Cookie's intercession and the nursing supervisor's appreciation of chocolate donations, he was able to visit Johnny more frequently.  Of course, it would be preferable if Johnny did not need to be confined to the ICU at all.  Early had been discharged to a private room a few days ago, and Johnny found that knowledge oddly depressing.  Intellectually, Johnny understood his concurrent infections and more serious injuries dictated his accommodations.  However, part of him was jealous that the doctor managed to escape relatively unscathed.  From what he understood, Early would be going home in a matter of days, whereas he was going to be bedridden at Rampart for weeks.  If Johnny was already sliding into a depression less than two weeks after the accident, what would his state of mind be in a couple of months?

Roy was about to rejoin his temporary partner in the emergency room when Johnny began violently thrashing in his sleep.  He immediately jumped to his feet and tried to calm his troubled friend.  "Hey.  Shhhhh.  It's going to be okay.  You're all right."

The commotion attracted the attention of the shift nurse, and Hannah rushed to his bedside.  "Mr. Gage?  C'mon wake up.  You're having another nightmare."

Johnny swatted Roy's hand away from his face.  "No!  Gotta get...out of here!  Gotta move...now!"

Setting the HT down on the small table, Roy spoke to his friend in a soothing cadence.  "It's okay, Johnny.  Shhhhh.  I'm sure you'll get your own room soon."

Hannah sadly explained the problem.  "No, that's not it.  He's reliving the accident.  Sometimes we have to sedate him when he becomes too agitated.  But with his respiratory problems, we try to avoid it if we can."

"Does this happen often?"

"Yeah.  Several times a day, actually.  Today he's been upset, so the dreams have been worse."

Brushing Johnny's hair away from his overly warm forehead, Roy kept up a reassuring patter until the young man settled down.  Satisfied his friend was no longer in distress, Roy asked the nurse to elaborate upon her earlier comment.  "Do you know what he's been upset about?"

"He's been down in the dumps ever since the orthopedist was in.  Apparently he's afraid his career as a paramedic is over."

Roy was instantly alarmed.  "Is that what the doctor told him?"

She studied the monitors for a moment.  "Not exactly.  I think Dr. Talbot was trying to paint a more realistic picture of his recovery, but you know how Johnny is.  Once he latches onto an idea, it's hard for him to shake it loose."

The paramedic sighed.  He knew all too well.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Brackett downed another cup of strong black coffee before he headed upstairs during his brief lunch break.  He felt guilty for not stopping by to see Early before he reported for work that morning, but after four consecutive double shifts, he was physically and emotionally exhausted.  Keeping the emergency department adequately staffed had been a significant challenge before Early's accident.  Now it had become a logistical nightmare.  To make matters worse, because of budget constraints, he could not afford to hire a physician on a short-term contract basis.  Joe had been a loyal Rampart employee for many years, and had therefore accrued a substantial amount of vacation and sick time.  Thus, they were in effect paying the neurosurgeon not to work.  From a moral standpoint, it was the right thing to do.  Rampart was paying him a benefit he had rightfully earned.  However, from a financial standpoint, it wasn't cost efficient.  As long has they had to pay his salary, Brackett couldn't hire the help they so desperately needed.

As he walked through the hospital corridors, Brackett berated himself for thinking of his friend in terms of the bottom line.  After all, wasn't that how he placed Early in harm's way over a week ago, by overlooking his frequent debilitating headaches in order keep his department functional?  Oh, sure.  He finally insisted that his colleague seek help, just before he sent him to his near doom.  Wasn't he as culpable as the driver who plowed into the Mercedes?

Brackett paused outside the private room to collect his thoughts.  Joe needed his support right now, not his self-recrimination.  The door was slightly ajar, and he peered inside.  Relieved to find his friend awake, he lightly tapped on the doorframe.  "Joe?"

"Hey, Kel.  Come on in."

Seating himself in one of the faux leather chairs, Brackett pulled a ballpoint pen from his lab coat.  "I talked to Phil Mabry this morning.  He said he'll probably release you by the end of the week."

"Yeah, I can't wait.  I spend way too much time here when I'm working.  I don't want to spend all of my personal time here, too."

Ouch.  Was that intended as a rebuke, or merely as an observation?  How was he supposed to reply to that?

Saving him the trouble, Early launched into a scathing tirade.  "What's the matter, Kel?  Does it bother you that I want my life back?  That I resent having to work like a maniac, even when I'm sick?"  Joe picked at a loose thread on his blanket.  "Or are you here to find out when I'm coming back so I can bail you out of the staffing crisis, again?"

Brackett's eyes flashed with anger.  "Wait a cotton-picking minute!  It's not like I held you at gunpoint and refused to let you seek medical attention."

"Oh, yeah?  When I was supposed to find the time?"

"All you had to do was let me know when you'd be out so I could arrange for someone to cover for you."  He sarcastically added, "It's not brain surgery."

Infuriated by the remark, Early tersely informed him, "Don't even go there.  There's no way in hell I'm having it done, so you can forget about it."

"Joe..."

The neurosurgeon continued his diatribe.  "You have no right to pass judgment on me.  This is my life, and I'll make my own decisions.  Did you honestly think you were going to talk me into surgery simply to soothe your guilty conscience?  That's it, isn't it?  The sooner I have it done and return to work, you can pretend nothing ever happened.  Well, I have a news bulletin for you.  This isn't about you and your selfish ambitions anymore.  You've taken advantage of our friendship far too long.  I'm quitting, Kel.  I'm not coming back to the emergency department."

Stunned by his colleague's accusations, Brackett fumbled with the ballpoint pen as he searched for a response.  "I think you're being a little hasty.  Why don't you take a leave of absence instead?  That way you could..."

Early interrupted him.  "If you can't manage to let me take a few days of vacation now and then, how is it that you're suddenly able to offer me so much time off?  Are you hoping I'll magically 'come to my senses' so I can work myself to death for your benefit?  You can forget about it."

A shell-shocked Brackett sat back in his chair.  What in the hell had prompted such a dramatic shift in attitude over the past few days?  And how did his friend possibly know to accuse him of the very same faults he was punishing himself for?

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

After a particularly grueling week, Dixie enjoyed a rare Saturday off.  Therefore, she couldn't help but appreciate the irony when she opted to spend her personal time at Rampart visiting a couple of friends.  Slipping into the ICU, she waved to the nurses as she passed the desk.  For the past ten days, Dixie had been a frequent visitor to the unit.  She knew Johnny's peritonitis and pneumonia were finally resolving, but his broken bones still caused him considerable discomfort.  They had switched him to a PCA pump for pain management, but for some reason, Johnny was reluctant to use it.  As long as she lived, she would never understand hardheaded men with an over-inflated sense of male bravado.

Rounding the corner, she discovered a frustrated John Gage trying to spear a warm Jell-O cube.  "Hey, Tiger!  Have you killed that thing yet?"

He snorted.  "No.  This damned stuff won't die.  I think it's an alien life form."  The barely congealed mass slid through the fork tines.  "It kind of reminds me of that green stuff from the science fiction movie a few years ago, 'Soylent Green.'"

She handed him a small cellophane bag.  "Here, I brought you something that doesn't move when you try to eat it."

He eagerly accepted the sack of lemon drops.  "Thanks, Dix.  You're the best.  The medicine from the breathing treatments leaves a bad taste in my mouth, in more ways than one."  He opened the bag and plopped a piece of the hard candy into his mouth.  "I heard Dr. Early is going home in a day or two."

"Yup.  I'm not sure who's happier about it, him or the nursing staff.  You know what they say about doctors being the worst patients."

Johnny beseeching looked into Dixie's eyes.  "Is he mad at me?"

"Who, Joe?"

"Yeah.  He's been out of the ICU for about a week now and he's never stopped by or called to see how I'm doing."

Dixie brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead.  "Why on earth do you think he might be mad at you?"  When he didn't answer, she remembered his recent conversation with Brackett.  "Are you still worried about the steering wheel thing?"

The sullen paramedic nodded imperceptibly.

She bit her lower lip as she debated how much to tell him.  Knowing Johnny's obsessive nature, he was going to torture himself about this forever.  Dixie took his hand in hers.  "Johnny, it wasn't your fault.  Joe wasn't feeling well that day, and was on his way home when he offered you a ride to the station.  None of us realized it at the time, but he had a brain tumor that affected his peripheral vision."

His eyes widened in disbelief.  "What?  Is he going to be okay?"

"Dr. Vance says it's operable, and most likely benign."

"So once he has the surgery, everything will be back to normal?"

"He believes Joe has a good prognosis."

Johnny slammed his casted arm against the railing.  "That's not fair.  He damn near kills me and then he gets off scott free?"

His violent reaction surprised her.  "I'd hardly call having a brain tumor getting off scott free," she reminded him.

"But...but...he can go back to his job!  I might not get that chance.  I might get reassigned to a desk job, or have to quit the department.  And you know me.  I'm a very active person.  I like to go fishing and camping and stuff.  Besides, how could Early not know he had a brain tumor?  Good grief, he's a neurosurgeon!  It's not fair."

A brooding Johnny tried to shake her hand loose from his, but she determinedly held on.  "No one ever said life was fair or easy, Johnny."

"No kidding."  He tried to alter his position in the bed, and gasped when the movement exacerbated the excruciating pain in his leg.

"Bad, huh?"  Dixie handed him the button to the PCA pump, but Johnny pushed it away.  Thoroughly exasperated, Dixie rolled her eyes.  "John Gage, what are you trying to prove?  That you're a tough macho man?  Or are you trying to punish yourself for some warped reason?"

His expression darkened, and Dixie knew she had her answer.

Part 3

The next day, Johnny was about ready to choke the living daylights out of his orthopedic surgeon while he examined the tender leg wound.  During the early morning hours, the throbbing pain had awakened him, and had grown progressively worse.  His fever had returned with a vengeance, as well as the nausea.  As an additional indignity, Johnny's aversion to using the PCA pump had led to its removal.  Now he was getting morphine through his IV again.  Johnny gritted his teeth as the doctor kept poking at the source of his agony.  A shot of morphine would be more than welcome about now.

Dr. Talbot's expression was grim.  "Mr. Gage, we're going to need to culture this."

Extremely irritated, Johnny expressed his displeasure about the new development.  "Oh, man.  This isn't fair!  Don't tell me I have another infection.  I'm still trying to shake off two others."

Picking up the chart, Dr. Talbot wrote a series of orders.  "Under the circumstances, I want you to be evaluated by an infectious disease specialist.  We need to get a handle on these infections once and for all.  If this is osteomyelitis, it's imperative that we treat this as aggressively as possible."

"Osteomyelitis?"  Johnny's voice wavered as he considered the implications.  "That can be a chronic condition, right?"

"It's possible, although not necessarily probable.  This could be a one-time thing."

Johnny's lower lip quivered into a heart-wrenching pout.  "But if it is chronic, my career is definitely over."  His dark thoughts turned toward the other accident victim's excellent prognosis, and his anger and resentment intensified.  Life was so damned unfair.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Chet sat on the bench, rummaging through his locker for his work boots.  Burrowing through the mountain of shredded newspaper, the annoyed firefighter searched for the elusive item.  Great.  Thanks to the Shadow, he was going to be late for Monday morning roll call.

He almost melted with relief when he found his footwear.  In his haste to finish getting dressed, he didn't notice the squishy sensation in the toes of his boots until it was too late.  He quickly withdrew his feet, disgusted by the brown mess that soiled his socks.  "Martinez!"

Pinning his badge to his blue uniform shirt, Mike looked up.  "What's wrong?"

"Arrggghhhh!  Gabriel put fake doggie doo in my boots!"

Marco stuck his head around the corner.  "What happened?  Are you okay?"

The engineer pointed to Chet's feet.  "Fake doggie doo."

A light bulb went off in Marco's head.  "So that's what he was doing with the can of refried beans this morning."

"You knew?" Chet sputtered.

Marco held up his hands in protest.  "Hey, how was I supposed to know Gabriel was going to use it for a prank?  I thought he was going to make a breakfast taco or something."

Tossing his dirty socks into his locker, Chet whined about his predicament.  "What do you mean, you had no idea he was going to use it for a prank?  We're talking Gabriel Martinez here.  Man, even the Phantom has some respect for his victims."

"Oh, come on, Chet," Mike countered.  "You pick on Johnny all the time."

Marco agreed.  "Yeah, and I never hear you moaning about how bad you feel about it either."

Chet squirmed.  They had absolutely no idea how guilty he felt.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Before Roy's shift ended that morning, Dixie had called him with an update.  The news was not encouraging, and she wanted him to know what awaited him when he arrived.  Johnny's temperature had spiked during the night, and he was in rare form.  Feverish, nauseated, in pain, and now plagued with diarrhea from the new medication, Johnny was in a horrible mood.  He was mad at the infectious disease specialist, the orthopedist, the surgeon, the ICU nurses, the respiratory therapist, the physical therapist, fate and the entire world.  As Roy slipped past the ICU's double doors, Johnny's screams assaulted his ears.

"No!  I’m not eating this shit!  I'm sick and tired of this green slime!  Besides, it's going to come right back up.  Get out of here!  Leave me alone!"

Hannah tried to plead with her agitated charge.  "Mr. Gage, if you don't keep something down, Dr. Greeley has written orders for us to insert an NG tube."

With his uncasted arm, Johnny picked up the water picture and flung it across the cubicle.  He was straining to reach for the box of Kleenex when he dislodged his IV.

Roy yanked the gauzy curtain aside.  "Johnny, what are you doing?"

His partner was completely unapologetic.  "I'm sick of this place, and I'm sick of being stuck in this stupid bed."  The nurse mopped up the ice water from the floor with a towel while Johnny fumed.

Stunned by the uncharacteristic behavior, Roy kept a safe distance at the foot of the bed.  "You need to settle down, or they're going to sedate the daylights out of you."

From Hannah's expression, Roy could tell she had already resolved to take advantage of a certain p.r.n.  order.

"I don't care," Johnny whined.  "It's not fair.  I've been imprisoned, and I'm not the one who committed the crime."

Roy was taken aback.  "What do you mean?"

"I'm not the one who crashed the car.  Unlike other people, I was paying attention to my surroundings that evening.  Now Early gets to go home in a couple of days, while I'm confined to bed forever."

"Johnny, it's not forever.  I'm sure it just seems that way."

"Oh, yeah?  How would you know?  That incompetent jerk nearly kills me, and then he waltzes off into the sunset like nothing ever happened."

"Wait a minute," Roy protested.  "Dr. Early didn't walk away from this without a scratch.  Besides, the man has a brain tumor!"

Johnny retorted, "Yeah, and he couldn't even diagnose himself.  I mean, how could he not know?  He's a neurosurgeon!  You want to know what really pisses me off?  Early can have the tumor removed and then go back to his career.  He's probably crippled me for life.  Then to top it all off, Early refuses to have the surgery.  Can you believe that?  He has a chance to resume a normal life, and he wants to throw it all away!"

"You're jumping to conclusions.  The accident was less than two weeks ago.  That's way too soon to give up."

"Oh, sure.  That's easy for you to say.  You're not the one who was stranded at Rampart that evening."

Roy did not appreciate where this conversation was heading.  "What are you saying?"

Pointing a finger at him, Johnny hurled his accusation.  "If you hadn't been so overcautious about the damned squad and left me to fend for myself, I wouldn't have needed a ride, and I would never have gotten in that car!  You just had to play it safe, didn't you?  Everything is as much your fault as it is Early's."

The allegation cut into Roy like a knife.  Ever since the accident, he had blamed himself for contributing to the tragedy.  However, actually hearing the words from his partner's mouth was devastating.  The bitter taste of bile inched up his throat, and Roy thought he was going to throw up.  In his haste to depart, he bumped into Hannah and a couple of nurses carrying IV paraphernalia and a syringe.  He wasn't sure whom he pitied more:  his friend, the staff or himself.  "God help us all," he silently prayed.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Sam Vance was clearly exasperated.  "Joe, the meningioma is probably benign, but there's always a possibility that it's not.  We won't know for sure until pathology weighs in.  For the sake of argument, what if it is malignant?  If you require chemo and/or radiation, you're seriously jeopardizing your prognosis by delaying the surgery."

Early was resolute.  "I'm not delaying the surgery, I'm refusing it altogether.  Once I'm discharged tomorrow, I'm going to resign and get the hell out of this hospital for good."

Leaning against the windowsill, Brackett added his two cents.  "Look, if you want to quit, that's your business.  If you need some more time to think about it, I can probably keep juggling the schedule for a few more weeks.  From a practical standpoint, you need to continue your insurance at least until you fully recover from your current injuries.  But with a brain tumor, it's going to be difficult to obtain private medical insurance, and you know it."

The neurosurgeon sat on the foot of Early's bed.  "Whether you return to work or not is up to you.  However, you don't get to make that decision when it comes to driving.  In view of the significant bilateral visual field defects, you cannot be allowed to operate a motor vehicle.  I'll have to report this, and your driver's license will be suspended indefinitely.  If somewhere down the line you change your mind about the surgery, then we can reassess your status."

"I won't change my mind," Early insisted.  "All I want is medication to alleviate the headaches and to keep the nausea at bay."

Dr. Vance picked up the chart from the bedside table.  "Okay.  Fine.  I'll write you a script.  I also want to see you in my office in about ten days."

An almost funereal atmosphere enveloped the room.  Brackett excused himself and stood outside the door.  Unfurling a fresh roll of antacids, he berated himself for his role in this unfolding drama, and hoped the chalky tablets would soon alleviate the persistent gnawing sensation in his stomach.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Marco discovered an uncharacteristically quiet Chet Kelly sitting on the couch with Henry.  He wasn't sure who looked more forlorn, the firefighter or the Bassett Hound with the soulful eyes.

"You okay?"

"Huh?  Yeah."  He distractedly continued scratching Henry behind the ears.

"C'mon.  Something is up.  What gives?"

Chet scanned the day room to make sure they were alone.  "You gotta promise me you won't laugh."

Tracing an "X" over his heart, Marco agreed.

"Remember a couple of weeks ago when Johnny shaved off my mustache when I went to bed early after that warehouse fire?  The shift before the accident?"

"Sure.  He wanted to get back at you for setting him up on a blind date with that female impersonator."

The melancholy firefighter lowered his voice.  "I was so furious, I cursed him."

"You swore at him?"

"No, I cursed him.  You know, put a hex on him?"

Marco sat down on the couch beside his distraught friend.  "Chet, what are you talking about?"

Touching the sparse hair on his upper lip, Chet continued his confession.  "My moustache is sacred, man.  Nobody touches it.  When I woke up that morning and realized what he had done, I told Gage to drop dead."

"That's it?"

"Don't you see?" Chet argued.  "The accident was my fault.  I told Johnny to drop dead, and he almost did!"

Marco begged to differ.  "It doesn't work like that.  It was a coincidence, nothing more."

Chet refused to be consoled.  "I don't believe in coincidences, Marco.  I'm scared Johnny isn't going to come back, ya know?  How could I possibly live with myself knowing I ruined his life?"

For one of the few times in the station's history, Henry jumped off the couch and ran like his tail was on fire.  Even he couldn't stand to listen to Chet torture himself.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Donning a pair of garishly colored mitts, Dixie prepared to remove the casserole from the oven.  Since she wasn't enjoying any success in convincing Brackett to take time to eat at the hospital, she hoped a more relaxed setting would encourage him to consume some form of nourishment.  Ever since he bought that damned percolator a week or so ago, practically all he consumed were endless cups of strong black coffee.  Oh, sure.  Every once in a while he would sprinkle a couple of packets of sugar into that sludge he brewed, but that was hardly sufficient to sustain him for the double shifts he worked almost every day.

Dixie was worried about the punishing schedule he was determined to maintain.  He had been stressed out for several months over the budget crisis and resultant staffing problems.  However, his appearance had changed dramatically since the accident.  Brackett had lost a significant amount of weight, and his ghastly pale complexion accentuated the ever-present dark circles under his eyes.  He was perpetually exhausted and irritable, and she wondered how much longer he could function.

Setting the Corning Ware dish on the trivet, Dixie called out into the living room.  "Kel, dinner's on the table."

"Hmm?"  He gradually awakened to the tantalizing smell of Dixie's famous chicken and rice casserole.  Embarrassed that he had fallen asleep on her couch, the chagrined doctor blearily rubbed his eyes.  "Sorry about that.  I don't know what got into me."

"Don't worry about it.  You needed the rest."  Sorting through her record collection, Dixie selected a jazz album Joe had given her last Christmas.  She smiled as placed the vinyl disk on the turntable and turned up the volume.  "You also need to eat.  C'mon."

Still groggy, he seated himself at the table.  "Looks great."

"I didn't ask you over here to look at it.  You're supposed to eat the casserole."

He chuckled.  "Has anyone ever told you how hardheaded you are?"

"And lived to tell the tale?"

Brackett spooned a generous helping onto his plate.  "You'll have to forgive me if I mistake this for a pillow and fall asleep in my food.  I didn't realize how tired I was."

She lightly squeezed his hand.  "Kel, you need to cut back on your hours.  You're working yourself into an early grave."

He snorted at her remark.  "Early grave.  That phrase has a whole new meaning now, doesn't it?"

Dixie stared at him inquisitively.  "Are you referring to Joe's brain tumor?"

"Sort of.  I guess."

"Sort of?  You guess?  What is that supposed to mean?"

Pushing the food around on his plate, Brackett nervously cleared his throat.  "Uh...you see..."

Giving him her patented "look", Dixie prompted him to continue.  "Spit it out, Kel."

"I should have forced Joe to have his headaches evaluated months ago.  Because of my obsession with keeping the department functioning, I jeopardized not only his health, but Johnny's too."

She rolled her eyes.  "Not again!  I thought we had this settled ages ago.  You did not cause the accident."

Abandoning the pretense of eating, he set his fork aside.  "Maybe not directly, but I'm certainly the one who sent them into that intersection."

"Oh, good grief!  Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?  Did you personally pour liquor down the driver's throat and force him to operate a motor vehicle while intoxicated?  Did you make him run the red light?  Was your foot on the accelerator of Joe's car, or were your hands on the steering wheel?"

"But if I hadn't allowed Joe to continue working..."

Dixie covered her ears.  "I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense.  I refuse to be participate in this pity party."

"That's easy for you to say," he grumbled.  "Joe and Johnny don't hate you."

"Kel, they don't hate you."

"Yes they do.  They both blame me for the accident."

She wadded her napkin and tossed it onto the table.  "They're both angry about the situation in general, and they're simply venting their frustrations.  I'm sure they don't mean it."

Brackett scoffed at her explanation.  "Dix, you don't understand."

"I understand that you're slowly killing yourself over some crazy sense of guilt.  You don't have to personally make up every single hour Joe's absence adds to the workload.  You're the head of the department, you can delegate."

"To whom?  We're already working with a skeleton crew."

Deciding the conversation was pointless, Dixie stood behind Brackett and massaged the tight muscles in his neck.  "I'm sorry I ruined your appetite."

"It's okay.  I have a wicked case of indigestion anyway."  Her tender ministrations relaxed him, and he could feel the tension melt away.  "Ummmm.  That feels nice.  Maybe I better go home before I fall asleep at your table."

Dixie strenuously objected.  "Not a chance.  You're worn out, and I'm afraid you'll fall asleep at the wheel.  I can convert the sofa into a bed and you can sleep here tonight."

"I hate to impose."

"You're not imposing.  Besides, if you won't do this for yourself, do it for me.  I don't want you getting into an accident on the way home and feel forced to blame myself for it."

Brackett wanted to slink under the table.  Touché.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The next morning, Johnny's poignant shrieks reverberated throughout the private room.  "No!  I'm sorry...I tried.  Not my fault.  Leave me alone!"

Captain Stanley buried his face in his hands.  Even in his delirium, Johnny could not escape his personal demons.  Yesterday afternoon, Johnny had developed ICU psychosis, and the medical staff had asked Roy to make arrangements to have someone sit with him until this latest crisis passed.  Cap had never heard of the condition before, but then again, his medical knowledge had increased significantly since he joined Station 51.  The young paramedic had a tendency to provide ample learning opportunities, not to mention several gray hairs.

Roy had explained that the psychosis was relatively common in patients confined to ICU for extended periods of time.  While the environment might be conducive for physical healing, it was emotionally stressful.  The various monitors frequently emitted shrill alarms, disturbing the patient's capricious slumber.  Vital signs had to be checked every hour, bedridden patients had to be turned every two hours, full assessments performed every four to six hours or as needed, a parade of doctors passed through several times a day, the telephone often rang incessantly...it was a miracle that anyone managed to get any decent rest.

The combination of sleep deprivation, pain, fever and stress finally took its toll, and Johnny was trapped in his private hell.  Ghosts of victims they were unable to save, as well as the vivid memories of the accident haunted him.  In order to soothe his frazzled nerves, Johnny had been transferred to a private room.  Hopefully the new accommodations would prove to be more tranquil, and ease his troubled mind.  That, and a ton of anti-psychotic medication.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, Johnny frantically tugged at the restraints.  Captain Stanley felt helpless as he spoke trite reassuring phrases in comforting, hushed tones.  As he gently brushed the damp hair from Johnny's forehead, he wondered when this nightmare would ever be over.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Dixie nervously knocked on Joe's apartment door.  Since his discharge from the hospital three days ago, no one had heard from the doctor, and she was concerned about his fragile state of mind.  Several minutes elapsed before an unshaven Early opened the door.

"Dix, what do you want?" he snapped.

Taken aback by his abrupt greeting, Dixie tried to paste a convincing smile on her face.  "I was running some personal errands today, and thought I'd see if you needed anything."

"I need to be left alone."  He started to close the door, but the persistent nurse pushed her way past him.

Surveying the cluttered apartment, Dixie clucked disapprovingly.  "This place is a mess!  Here, let me help you clean this..."

"No, I just want you to leave.  Now."

"Do you need any groceries or a ride to the store?  I'd be happy to..."

His temper flared.  "Did Kel send you here to spy on me?"

Incensed, Dixie put her hands on her hips.  "What the hell are you talking about?  No one sent me.  I've been worried sick about you, and wanted to see how you were doing."

"Why?  Did you need to assuage your guilty conscience, too?"

"Joe Early!  I'm beginning to think that concussion scrambled your brains more than we thought.  What on earth do I need to feel guilty about?"  Her eyes flashed with anger.  "Look, maybe Kel and Johnny are stupid enough to blame themselves for your predicament, but I'm not.  If you want to hide in your den of misery and mope, fine."  She yanked the door open and stormed out of the apartment.

He immediately regretted his rude behavior, but his foolish pride would not allow him to follow after her.  Instead, he sank down on the couch and wept.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Roy slung the tie and sports coat he had worn to church on the bed, and rummaged through his closet for more casual attire.  Settling on an Oxford cloth shirt and a faded pair of blue jeans, he wearily retrieved his wallet from his pocket and placed it on the dresser.  He was due to relieve Marco at the hospital in an hour, a prospect he was not looking forward to.  Because of Johnny's psychotic hallucinations over the past two days, someone needed to sit with him at all times.  The experience was incredibly draining, not to mention depressing.  In his confused state, Johnny hurled vicious epithets and bitter accusations.  It was difficult not to take them personally, especially when some of them struck too close to home.

He was tying the shoelaces of his sneakers when Joanne sat down on the bed beside him.  "Do you have to leave now?"

"Yeah.  Marco's been there since ten last night.  If I don't get there soon, he'll be climbing the walls, too."

"Is it that bad?"

He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.  "You have no idea.  Johnny was already in rough shape from his injuries, but he seemed to take the peritonitis and pneumonia in stride for a while.  Then he latched onto this crazy idea that his bones aren't going to heal and that his career is over.  Of course, to hear him tell it, the osteomyelitis has sealed his fate.  Between the fever and the psychosis, he's saying stuff that's been on his mind.  Some of it's really hurtful, even though I know he doesn't mean for it to be."

Joanne tenderly ran her fingers through his hair.  "Like what?"

"Oh, like blaming me for the accident."

"What?  How on earth could he ever think such a thing?"

Roy rose from the bed and retrieved his wallet from the dresser.  Stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans, he avoided eye contact with his wife.  "Uh...it's my fault Johnny was in the car with Dr. Early that evening.  It was his turn to ride in with the victim, so I drove the squad.  On the way to Rampart, I heard a weird rattling sound I had never heard before.  Johnny's more mechanically inclined that I am, so I should have waited until I got to Rampart to have him listen to it.  But the noise kept getting worse, so I decided to swing by and let Charlie take a look at it.  The whole thing took a lot longer than I thought it would, and I wound up stranding Johnny at the hospital.  If I would have known that would have put him at Early's mercy..."

"Wait a minute!" Joanne interrupted.  "Don't tell me you've been beating yourself up over this for the past two and a half weeks?  That's that dumbest thing I've ever heard.  I thought you said no one knew Dr. Early had a brain tumor until after the accident."

"Yeah, but..."

"So you're some kind of psychic now?  Let me get this straight.  You were supposed to know that if you let Charlie take a look at the squad, Johnny would accept a ride from a half-blind Dr. Early and they'd both be seriously injured in a car accident and you'd manage to find a way to blame yourself for this mess.  Did I miss anything?"

"It's not that simple, Jo."

Joanne picked up the sports coat from the bed and draped it over her arm.  "Explain it to me then.  Because now that you've suddenly developed ESP or something, I need to know if we should have the dryer repaired, or go ahead and buy a new one.  Maybe you can look into your magic crystal ball and tell me when we can get one on sale.  You know I've always been partial to Kenmores.  Oh, and since you'll be able to single-handedly prevent fires and accidents by predicting them and warning people in advance, the county won't need your services as a firefighter/paramedic anymore.  You'll need to find another line of work.  No, wait a minute, I forgot.  With your psychic abilities, you can go to Vegas and make a fortune in the casinos.  Yeah, that will work.  We'll live off your winnings.  We can live in a mansion with a swimming pool, golf course, tennis court and two dryers!"

Blushing, Roy laughed.  "I guess it does sound pretty silly when you put it that way."  He took her into his arms and kissed her.  "Thanks, babe."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

On Monday, the men of A-Shift enthusiastically gathered around the table to enjoy Captain Stanley's famous clam chowder.  All morning long, they had fervently prayed the tones wouldn't sound until they had devoured a couple of bowls of the delicious concoction.

Before anyone helped himself, Chet spoke up.  "Guys, we should save some of this in a thermos.  Since Mike is taking the day off to stay with Johnny, Roy could drop it off during a run to Rampart."

Roy nodded.  "I'm sure Mike would appreciate it.  Hospital food sure leaves a lot to be desired."

"Tell me about it," Marco groaned.  "Yesterday I took a couple of sandwiches from home, but I got hungry later and one of the nurses scrounged up a tray for me.  Man, that stuff is nasty!"

"Speaking of nasty..."  Chet cast a menacing glare in Gabriel's direction.  "A certain person put a chicken bouillon cube in the showerhead this morning.  I'm not going to embarrass anyone by mentioning any names, but so help me if the Shadow doesn't knock it off, I'm going to seriously injure a certain paramedic."

Gabriel sprinkled a handful of crackers into his bowl of chowder.  "You said you thought you might be coming down with a cold, and everyone knows hot chicken soup works wonders."

Captain Stanley rubbed his forehead.  "Martinez, cut it out.  One paramedic in the hospital is enough, got it?"

Dave Thompson, the engineer subbing for Mike, reached for the saltshaker.  "How is Johnny doing, anyway?  I heard the accident was real bad."

With a seesaw motion of his hand, Roy replied.  "He has his moments.  After they debrided the leg wound, the osteomyelitis started getting better.  But now he has this condition called ICU psychosis.  He's hallucinating all sorts of weird stuff, so someone needs to sit with him all the time to try to keep him oriented."

Recalling his harrowing shift, Captain Stanley shuddered.  "I was there on Saturday.  He was seeing the ghosts of victims, mostly children.  You know, like the little girl who was crushed to death in the traffic pile-up on the 405, or the five kids who burned in the abandoned warehouse fire while playing with fireworks, or the two toddlers who wandered into the ditch in the middle of the night.  It's as though his most painful memories keep bubbling to the surface.  He's blaming himself and just about everyone for something."

Chet swallowed uncomfortably.  "Really?"  Damn.  So Johnny did blame him.  His worst fears were confirmed.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Two days later, Brackett listened to the incoming base station transmission as he unwrapped a fresh roll of antacids.  Depressing the switch, he tiredly barked his orders to the waiting paramedic.  "Squad 36, start an IV of Ringer's TKO, splint the leg fracture and transport as soon as possible."

As the paramedic confirmed the instructions, Dixie couldn't help but notice her friend's haggard appearance.  He was pale and gaunt, and the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced.  She watched him quickly chew two antacid tablets, and then gulp half a cup of black coffee.  Dixie wondered if he ever took the time to eat or sleep anymore, especially since the accident nearly three weeks ago.  It was as if he was determined to work himself to death as a peculiar form of penance.  When she saw Brackett grimace as he rubbed his epigastric region, she lost her patience.  "Kel, when are you going to make an appointment to see a gastroenterologist about that?"

Pretending to be blissfully ignorant, he stuffed the roll back into his pocket.  "See who about what?"

"Don't insult my intelligence.  You've had an upset stomach for months, and it's getting worse.  I'm not blind.  I know you're living off antacids and coffee.  It's way past time you see someone about this.  Why don't you schedule an appointment with Bob Mueller?"

"Dix, it's just a simple case of stress-induced gastritis.  Trust me on this."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow.  "Uh huh.  Didn't Joe say something similar about his headaches?"

"That's different!"

"I don't see how.  Haven't you ever heard of the old adage, 'the doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient'?  This is absurd.  Is there something in the water at Rampart that makes doctors hard-headed and foolish, or do you guys come by it naturally?" Her expression softened and she rested her hand on his arm.  "Kel, I'm worried.  You can't keep this up.  This is killing you."

His indifferent expression scared the daylights out of her.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

A tall, lovely figure in flowing pink chiffon and a tall veiled hat stood at the doorway of Johnny's room.  "Trick-or-Treat!"

Irritated by the intrusion, he slowly turned his head toward the unexpected visitor.  "Aren't you a little old for Halloween?"

The fairy princess graced him with a dazzling smile.  "A girl is never too old to find her Prince Charming."

He blinked a couple of times and refocused on the beautiful blonde with the expressive blue eyes.  "Cookie?"

"The one and only."  She carefully rearranged the cascading folds of her gown before sitting in tattered vinyl chair.  The incongruous sight was almost comical.  "I know you probably don't remember, but I've been by every day to see you since you were discharged from the ICU.  I'm glad to see you're finally feeling better."

Johnny sullenly picked at his bedcovers.  "Right.  Now instead of feeling half-dead I only feel one-third dead."  Even though the pneumonia and peritonitis had essentially resolved, he was still fighting off the vestiges of the osteomyelitis, and praying it was not going to become a chronic condition.  He was still running a low-grade fever, he frequently felt nauseated from the medications and the remnants of the infection, his leg hurt, his entire body was sore from the forced inactivity, and worst of all, his soul ached.  Johnny mourned the loss of his career and the outdoor hobbies he loved so much.  To compound his misery, people he had considered his friends were responsible for his plight, people he had literally trusted with his life.  Well, he wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Cookie pretended not to notice his bleak mood.  "You know, I have a great new Fleetwood Mac cassette tape you'd probably enjoy.  In fact, tomorrow night I could bring my tape player and we could listen to some music over a home-cooked meal.  I can make great lasagna and garlic bread."

Wanting nothing more than to be left alone, Johnny tried a plausible excuse.  "No, thanks.  My stomach is still kind of queasy."

"Oh, okay.  Then how about some chicken and dumplings or vegetable stew?"

Her enthusiasm was making it difficult to wallow in self-pity.  "No, really.  That's not necessary."

The attractive nurse playfully ruffled his hair.  "I know it's not necessary.  I want to do it.  When you get out of the hospital, you can take me to that Mexican restaurant you're always raving about.  In the meantime, I thought I could bring a meal for you once in a while to make your hospitalization a bit more bearable.  I may not be the greatest cook in the world, but my food is edible."

"Um...Cookie...about that date..."

"Oh, Johnny!  We don't have to wait until you're out of the hospital to go out on our first official date; we can improvise."  Cookie grinned mischievously.  "After all, you don't have a roommate at the moment.  I'm sure we can manage something!"

Johnny was rapidly loosing patience with Cookie's exuberance.  She was a nurse, for heaven's sake.  Didn't she know how hopeless his prognosis was?  For all practical purposes, he was crippled now.  Cookie's boundless energy only served to remind him of what he felt he had lost, and he was extraordinarily jealous.  Ironically, the young woman he had once so ardently pursued, he now wanted to push out of his life completely.  Johnny struggled to control his fragile emotions.  "Cookie, get out of here."

"What?"

His voice wavered.  "Get out.  I don't want you to come here any more."

Totally aghast, Cookie stammered.  "But...but...Johnny..."

"What part of 'Get out' do you not understand?" he yelled.  "Go back to your perfect little life and leave me the hell alone!"

Bursting into tears, Cookie tripped over her gown as she fled the room.  Her handsome prince was no longer quite so charming.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Sitting in a physician's private office was not his favorite way to start the week.  Early fought to conceal the rising nausea as he sat in front of the neurosurgeon's massive mahogany desk.  The scene was uncannily reminiscent of the one in Brackett's office nearly a month ago when he was confronted about his headaches.  Had it only been about a month ago?  He thought it seemed like a lifetime since two of his friends had turned his world completely upside down.  In retrospect, Kel's betrayal hadn't been that much of a surprise.  After all, he had been all too eager to ignore the debilitating headaches as long as it served his Machiavellian schemes.  But Early had been surprised by Johnny's complicity in the accident.  Oh, sure.  He had occasionally overhead Roy lecture the younger man about treating the women he dated with more respect, but it had never occurred to him how selfish Johnny was before.  If the paramedic hadn't been so damned impatient to get back to the station just for a lousy plate of spaghetti, Early wouldn't have offered him a ride.  And how had he been rewarded for playing the Good Samaritan?  He could have been killed.  Talk about a classic case of "No good deed goes unpunished."

Sam Vance eyed him curiously.  "You look a bit green.  I can have one of the nurses give you an injection for the nausea."

Afraid to open his mouth lest his tenuous control give way, Early merely shook his head.

"Damn it, Joe.  What are you trying to prove?  That you're tough?  Stupid?  Crazy?  For the life of me, I can't figure this out.  You're obviously not keeping oral meds or food down on a consistent basis.  That certainly narrows your options.  And this is treatable.  You don't have to keep suffering."

Early mutely studied his fingernails.

The neurosurgeon tapped the chart with his pen.  "Joe, I'm tempted to refer you to a psychiatrist before I agree to refill your pain meds.  I'm not wild about prescribing narcotic pain relief ad infinitum."

Taking a deep breath to keep the queasiness at bay, Early vehemently protested.  "Look, the headaches are essentially unchanged.  I just need some help to manage..."

"Essentially?  What kind of changes are we talking about here?"

"Sam, they're hardly worth mentioning."

Dr. Vance leaned back in the leather chair and cupped his chin in his hand.  "Humor me.  Mention them."

Cursing himself for his unintended disclosure, Early elaborated upon his statement.  "The auras occur more frequently, and they're not always associated with a headache."

"I see.  Any discernable seizure activity?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Early snapped at the neurosurgeon.  "I'm sure I haven't awakened on the floor in a puddle of pee lately!"

Opening his desk drawer, Dr. Vance pulled out a green form.  "Joe, we need to get an EEG as soon as possible.  Have you had any caffeine today?"

"Sam, this isn't necessary."

"Yeah, right."  As he completed the pre-printed form, Dr. Vance addressed his reluctant patient.  "You truly baffle me.  Hell, you're a neurosurgeon!  You know as well as I do that your symptoms aren't going to mystically and magically disappear until you have the tumor removed.  By delaying the procedure, you're running the risk of compromising healthy tissue due to compression..."

Suddenly, the proposed diagnostic testing became a moot point.  Early appeared confused for a few seconds, and then his muscles stiffened as he pitched forward and his body began a macabre dance.  There was little doubt that the doctor was suffering from a generalized seizure.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Alone with his thoughts, Johnny cradled a box of tissues.  It was two in the morning, and sleep still cruelly eluded him.  He was suspended between two nightmares:  his tortured dreams, where the ghosts of his past haunted him, and his waking thoughts, where he was plagued by fears and anxieties.  Throughout his career as a firefighter/paramedic, he had been injured on several occasions.  However, he always assumed he would eventually bounce back.  This time he wasn't so sure.  In fact, this time he was certain he wouldn't.  The doctors were "guardedly optimistic."  Translation:  they were carefully hedging their bets.

Johnny knew his shift-mates and guys from the department had kept watch over him during his psychosis, but for some bizarre reason, he no longer felt a connection to them.  It was as though his injuries disqualified him from the sacred brotherhood of firefighters.  He couldn't earn his keep anymore; therefore, he wasn't entitled to their friendship and loyalty.  An impressive collection of scattered tissues on the bed served as a testament to his grief.

A tape of the accident had replayed over and over in his mind for almost a month.  If he had it all to do over again, what would he have he done differently?  For starters, he could have finagled for Roy to ride in with victim instead of him.  Or, when he realized he had been stranded, he could have asked Roy to pick him up in his car, or he could have taken a taxi.  He should have noticed Early wasn't feeling well, and he never should have accepted the ride.  Even if he had accepted the ride, he should have jumped out of the car instead of trying to move it out of the way, or...heck, there must have been a zillion things he could have or should have done.

Ever since the accident, his eyes had been opened to the harsh realities of life at Rampart.  Up until recently, the only staffing issues that had concerned him were the cute nurses the hospital employed.  Johnny was livid to discover that his career was possibly over because of a budget problem in the emergency room.  He would never forgive Brackett and Early for ruining his life.  Blowing his nose, he decided he hated his miserable existence.  Why should he even bother with physical therapy?  He was a lost cause.  Maybe he should have just died in the accident.  His soul was already slipping away.  Perhaps he should allow his body to do the same.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

To Chet's profound relief, his nemesis had called in sick with the flu, and he was enjoying a blissful Shadow-free existence.  However, the reprieve only marginally lifted his flagging spirits.  He absently swirled the saltine crackers into his bowl of chili until they dissolved into a soggy mess.

Captain Stanley's firm voice interrupted his gloomy reverie.  "Kelly, are you going to eat that, or enter it as an exhibit in a modern art gallery?"

"Huh?  Oh."  The embarrassed firefighter set the spoon aside.  "I'm not as hungry as I thought I was."

Pretending to be concerned, Bellingham solicitously pressed his hand against Chet's forehead.  "No sign of fever.  Guess it's not the bubonic plague after all."

Chet swatted the paramedic's hand aside.  "Cut it out.  I was just thinking."

"Oooooh.  Unfamiliar territory," Mike teased.

Sulking, Chet pushed his bowl aside and propped his elbows on the table.  "I'm thinking about retiring the Phantom for good."

Roy reached for the bottle of hot sauce.  "What brought this on?"

Stroking his filled-in mustache, Chet appeared wistful.  "Over the years, the Phantom has pulled a lot of great pranks on Johnny.  Some real classics.  And he's come up with a few good ones of his own, although I'd never tell him that in a million years.  But after Gabriel taped bubble wrap to my back tires the other day, I realized that practical jokes go too far sometimes.  When I started to pull out of my parking space, that loud popping noise scared me to death.  For a moment, I thought someone was shooting at me!  It made me think about the time I stuck a rubber snake in Johnny's boots.  I thought he was going to have a heart attack!  At the time I thought it was hysterically funny, but now I can see it was just downright mean.  Maybe it's time to retire the Phantom, out of respect for my wounded pigeon, ya know?  Sort of a way to make amends for everything."

Marco tried to reassure his distressed friend.  "Aw, Chet.  You know that Johnny always gets over it.  He's the most forgiving person I know."

Chet stood up and collected his uneaten meal.  Maybe that was so, but in his heart, he could not forgive himself for cursing his friend.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Tired of Brackett barricading himself him in his office with his precious coffeepot during breaks, Dixie decided to take matters into her own hands.  She strongly suspected he wasn't going to eat a decent meal over the entire weekend, so she intended to browbeat him into eating a sandwich before he left for the day.  Armed with a tray from the cafeteria, she barged into his office without knocking.

The interruption startled him, and he accidentally knocked his coffee cup over onto a stack of papers.  "Dix!  Look what you made me do!"

Entirely unapologetic, she set the tray on the desk and plucked a handful of tissues from the nearby box.  Dixie calmly blotted the dark liquid from a two-month old JAMA subscription renewal notice.  "Kel, you didn't need that caffeine anyway.  If the lab ran an analysis of your blood, it would be pure Maxwell House."

"Folgers," he protested meekly.

Dixie unwrapped the turkey sandwich and placed it in his hands.  "You need to eat.  Man shall not live on coffee alone."

He shot her a look of utter annoyance.  "I thought that was, 'Man shall not live by bread alone.'"

"At least bread has calories and some nutritional value."

"Hey, I've started putting sugar and non-dairy creamer in my coffee once in a while!"

"Oh, wow.  Caffeine, sugar, corn syrup solids, vegetable oils, emulsifiers, artificial flavoring, artificial coloring and preservatives.  Yup, I'd definitely say those cover the basic food groups."  She stuck a straw into the pint-sized milk carton and thrust the container at the flustered physician.

Brackett half-heartedly nibbled at the sandwich.  "I really ought to write you up for insubordination."

"I'm not worried.  Starving people can't afford to expend unnecessary energy.  You're too exhausted to fill out the forms in triplicate."

He took a couple of swigs of milk.  "I won't argue with you there.  It's been a heck of a week."

Dixie moved a stack of papers and leaned against his desk.  "Tell me about it.  Let's see.  On Monday, Joe was admitted for seizures.  Then on Tuesday, two of my nurses quit without notice, and another informed me she's getting married at the end of the month and will be moving clear across the country.  While I was still reeling from those little surprises, Wayne Rivers had the intestinal fortitude to inform me he's volunteered the emergency room staff for the annual disaster preparedness drill scheduled in a couple of weeks.  No overtime pay or comp time.  After all, he reminded me, 'That's why it's called a public service.' When I visited Johnny during my lunch break on Wednesday, he was screaming profanities at his physical therapist.  He was completely unrepentant, and felt perfectly justified for his bad behavior.  Now he's refusing to see her.  Obviously, Dr. Talbot isn't too happy about that."

"Jake Greeley isn't too happy with him, either."  Brackett took another sip of milk.  "Johnny has been refusing to eat for several days.  At this point, Jake doesn't feel the loss of appetite is attributed to infections, medications or other physiological causes."

"Depression?"

"He recommended a psychiatric consultation, but Johnny wasn't too enthusiastic about the idea."

"I'll bet."  Dixie tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear.  "So whose idea was the nasogastric tube, Jake's?"

"Yeah.  From what I understand, Johnny wasn't exactly a willing participant.  Apparently it was rather unpleasant."

Lifting her hands as if in supplication, Dixie groaned.  "I don't understand it.  Why are you guys so determined to jeopardize your health?  What are you trying to prove?  And to whom?"

Pushing the tray aside, Brackett covered the scarcely touched sandwich with his napkin.  The very thought of food was enough to make his uneasy stomach churn.  "Um...I talked to Sam yesterday.  Joe is still adamant about refusing surgery, despite the development of seizure activity.  He's on hefty dosages of Dilantin, in addition to the Vicodin for headaches and Phenergan for nausea.  I stopped by to see him a couple of days ago, but he was pretty out of it."  He tried to choke back the rising bile that threatened to spill forth.  "It's...uh...just as well I guess.  I'm probably the last person he wanted to see."  Brackett frantically scanned the room for a desperately needed item.

Dixie immediately recognized the warning signs, and she shoved the lined wastebasket in front of him.  Unable to control the painful stomach contractions, Brackett spewed the undigested food into the receptacle.  As his shaking body heaved from the effort, Dixie sympathetically rubbed his back in soothing circular motions.  Why did he have to be so stubborn?  Hadn't he punished himself enough?  He couldn't possibly go on like this much longer, and frankly, neither could she.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Armed with colorful Mylar balloons in one hand, and a sack full of oversized get well cards and gifts in the other, Roy awkwardly pushed the door open to Johnny's room.  "Hey, Johnny!  I brought you a little something from the kids."  Dropping the shopping bag onto the battered visitor's chair, Roy tied the balloons to the nightstand.  Likenesses of Bugs Bunny, Sylvester, Road Runner, Marvin the Martian and the Tasmanian Devil soon kept an unblinking vigil over the desolate scene.

Roy handed the homemade cards to his friend, and was disappointed when he made no effort to look at them.  The children had begged to be allowed to stay up past their bedtimes to finish little homemade gifts for their "Uncle Johnny."  Since they didn't have school the next day, Joanne relented, and the children wreaked havoc in the kitchen as they cheerfully cut and pasted scraps of construction paper, sprinkling generous amounts of glitter on their creations.  Despite her best efforts to clean up the mess from the night before, Roy was amused to discover a silvery shimmer on his toast this morning.  A couple of hours ago, the glitter had served as a joyful reminder of youthful innocence and unconditional love.  Now the garnished breakfast rested heavily in his stomach.

He wasn't going to ask how his partner was.  That much was obvious.  He was in significant pain, and as of a couple of days ago, the unhappy recipient of a nasogastric tube.  Johnny was physically wasting away, and had begun to withdraw emotionally.  Considering how abusive his behavior had been recently toward his friends and to the staff, Roy wondered if that could be construed as a peculiar blessing.  Immediately feeling guilty for the selfish thought, he turned his head toward the television.  "Uh...is UCLA playing today?"

"Yeah.  Oregon State."

"You gonna watch it?"

Pointing to the traction frame and ropes, Johnny snorted.  "How am I supposed to do that?  This darned stuff is in the way!"  He awkwardly rearranged his covers with his left hand.  "I'm sick and tired of this whole mess.  I'm not going to get better, so what's the use?"

Roy turned the television off and sat down.  "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean I don't have anything to look forward to, you know?  Dr. Talbot says my bones aren't healing very well..."

"You've had a few setbacks, that's all.  That doesn't mean you're never going to get better.  You just got off to a slow start."

"No, you don't understand.  I've used up my nine lives.  It's over, man.  My career...my life.  I feel so useless.  What's the point of waking up every morning now?"  Johnny experimentally tugged at the NG tube before burrowing into his pillow.

Roy was at a loss about what to say to his despondent partner.  "Have you talked to Brackett about helping out with the paramedic program until you can get back on your feet?  I'm sure he could use the help."

"Nope.  It would be too painful to train other guys, knowing I'll never get to go back into the field again.  Besides, I wouldn't want to work with Brackett.  I don't trust his judgment anymore."

"What?  How can you possibly say that?  I know his bedside manner can be a little rough sometimes, but he's the best."

Johnny pushed himself up on his left elbow.  "Best?  Best what?  Best example of malpractice?  He and Early nearly killed me!"

Incredulous, Roy stood up and walked to the window.  He opened the curtain and allowed sunlight to flood the room while he calmed his frayed nerves.  Still holding the cord, Roy sat on the windowsill, trying to choose his words carefully.  "Johnny, there's a reason accidents are called accidents.  They're unexpected, unforeseen, unplanned events.  Hindsight is always crystal clear, and we can second-guess ourselves to death.  It's easy to criticize ourselves or others after the fact."

When Johnny remained silent, Roy searched his memory.  "Didn't UCLA lose to Washington by four points last weekend?"

Not understanding the apparent non sequitur, Johnny cautiously nodded.

"When Dwyer stopped by a couple of days later between calls, didn't you provide him with your expert analysis as to why UCLA lost, and what you would have done differently under the circumstances?"

"So?"

"My point being, is that you had the advantage of being a 'Monday morning quarterback.' You saw the big picture from different angles on the television screen, plus you had two days to recreate the plays in your mind a hundred times.  The players on the field didn't have those options.  Each guy only saw the game from his perspective, and had to make split-second decisions.  Obviously mistakes were made, but they did the best they could under the circumstances."

Picking at his thumbnail, Johnny reflected on his partner's comments.  "So are you saying maybe I'm obsessing about this too much?"

Roy shrugged.  "Maybe you've reached some wrong conclusions, too.  Maybe you still need to work out a few more possibilities in your mind before you throw away a career and some friendships."  Blinking back a tear, Roy opened the children's cards and set them on Johnny's table before wordlessly leaving the room.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Brackett slipped his pen back into his pocket as he exited the treatment room.  It was a relatively slow Monday morning, and he was hoping to get caught up on some of his dictation before the next onslaught of patients.  He fantasized about imbibing freshly brewed coffee over a completed stack of charts.  The image of a cup of steaming hot java was almost seductive, and he groaned with satisfaction.  Thank goodness he had his own personal coffeepot now.  Pushing his unlocked office door open, Brackett mentally patted himself on the back.  Yup, anytime he wanted it, he could have a cup of...  "Joe!"

The emergency room physician staggered backward when he saw his colleague patiently sitting in a chair in front of the cluttered desk.  In fact, it was the very same chair Early occupied shortly before the accident.  Had it only been a month ago yesterday?  He felt he had aged a lifetime since then.  Each morning when he looked into the mirror, he felt as though his reflection represented a grotesque version of the portrait of Dorian Gray.  Although his physical appearance revealed his anguish, it concealed the wretched deterioration of his soul.

Early shakily rose to his feet.  "Sorry for taking over your office, Kel.  I'm a bit sensitive to light and noise, and thought..."

Mustering his most reassuring smile under the circumstances, Brackett motioned for him to sit back down.  "No problem.  Mi casa es su casa, or something like that."  Rather than sit behind the imposing desk, he opted for the chair opposite his friend.  "I stopped by to see you a couple of times last week, but you were asleep."

"Yeah.  The Dilantin makes me fuzzy, plus I had a few injections of Valium."

Not normally known for his tact, Brackett decided not to pursue the subject.  "So what brings you here?  Nostalgia?  Overpriced vending machine food?"

"No, my resignation.  Personnel said you needed to sign off on my paperwork."  The white-haired man handed over a stack of forms.  "As soon as you're done, I'll take them back to Mark for processing."

Retrieving a ballpoint pen from his pocket, Brackett hesitated.  "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Of course this isn't what I want to do.  This is what I have to do."

"Joe, that's not true.  If you elect to have the surgery, you could probably resume normal activities within three to six months.  I'm not saying it would be easy, but if that's what you want, I'll find a way to keep your job open for you."

"Damn it, Kel!  Don't pretend you're doing this for my benefit.  You're only interested in saving your own sorry butt.  If you wanted to develop an altruistic streak, you should have done it months ago.  It's a classic case of too little, too late.  You nearly worked me to death, literally.  Perhaps if you were more concerned about your friends instead of the bottom line, I wouldn't be in this position."

Stinging from the rebuke, Brackett angrily scrawled his indecipherable signature on each form.  Clicking the pen, he returned it to his pocket and shoved the paperwork into his colleague's hands.  "I'm not your keeper.  You're a grown man, and have a responsibility to take care of yourself."

Early glared at his former boss.  "Are you looking for absolution?"

Fuming, Brackett stormed out of his office and slammed the door.  Once in the hall, he automatically reached for the familiar roll of antacids to calm his upset stomach.

Part 4

Wednesday morning dragged on interminably.  It seemed everyone with a case of the sniffles, mosquito bites, athlete's foot, ingrown toenails and nothing better to do had descended upon the emergency room in full force.  Brackett was frustrated beyond belief at the nature of the minor complaints.  So far, the average duration of his patients' symptoms was ten days, and this morning they suddenly decided they required emergency medical attention.  When Brackett asked his last patient why he didn't consult his family doctor about the small rash on his arm earlier, he said he hated to bother him for such a little problem.  The man certainly didn't mind tying up valuable ER resources over an insignificant rash!

Hunger pangs gnawed at Brackett, and he felt a little nauseated.  Much to his chagrin, he realized he had forgotten to eat, again.  No wonder he had a wicked headache.  He started to head toward his office to eat a handful of crackers when he was accosted by one of the nurses.

"Dr. Brackett.  You didn't finish writing your discharge orders on the last patient you saw," Carol informed him.

"Of course I did."  Brackett huffed indignantly, angrily flipping through the chart.  "It's right...it should be...well, where the hell is the rest of it?"

Roger Dunn, the physician recently reassigned to cover Early's position, leaned against the desk as he replaced the batteries in his beeper.  "Is there a problem, Kel?"

His boss shot him an icy glare as he attempted to scribble the necessary instructions.  Brackett's vision was blurry, and his hands were noticeably shaking.  He felt like he was going to throw up.

Concerned, Dr. Dunn approached him.  "Kel, are you okay?"

Thrusting the now completed chart into Carol's hands, Brackett barked at the young physician.  "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine.  You look like you've seen a ghost.  Are you coming down with something?"

"What?"

Dixie tried to tactfully diffuse the situation.  "Maybe you should go to your office and lie down for a few minutes."

"Maybe you should mind your own business," Brackett snapped.

Stunned by her friend's rebuke, she quickly averted her gaze.

Brackett began to feel extremely lightheaded, and the nausea intensified exponentially.  He desperately tried to stave off the gray mist that threatened to overtake him, but to no avail.  His eyelids fluttered while he swayed precariously for a couple of seconds.  Then, the floor abruptly rushed up to greet him.

Tossing the dismantled beeper onto the counter, Dr. Dunn caught the unconscious physician and gently lowered him to the floor.  "We need a gurney!" he shouted.

Dr. Dunn's sharp command interrupted her thoughts, and Dixie quickly looked up.  The two men were no longer standing at the desk.  Regaining her composure, she hurried to Brackett's side.  "What happened?"

"He just collapsed.  He's diaphoretic.  His breathing is rapid and shallow and his pulse is racing."  Dr. Dunn helped the orderlies lift the unconscious man onto the gurney.  "Let's get move him into Treatment Room 2."

Once the staff had transferred him to the exam bed, Brackett was divested of his lab coat and shirt.  Not being familiar with the doctor's medical history, Dr. Dunn directed his question to Dixie.  "Does he have any known medical problems or is he taking any medication?"

She grabbed the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope from the wall mount.  "He's been taking some over-the-counter antacids for stomach irritation for the past several months."

"Has he seen a gastroenterologist about it?"

"No.  He keeps insisting it's probably a case of stress-induced gastritis."

"What is his BP?"

Dixie sighed.  "It's 94/68."

Dr. Dunn frowned as he palpated his patient's abdomen.  "He's lost quite a bit of weight.  Looks like he's been skipping too many meals."

"Yeah, he's really been stressing out over the budget crunch and staffing problems."

"His blood sugar is probably in the basement.  Let's get a serum glucose level.  He's also dehydrated.  Start an IV of D5W."  He checked his patient's pupillary responses and mucous membranes.  "Let's also get a CBC.  With the chronic stomach irritation, I want to rule out the possibility of anemia from a gastric bleed."

Dixie adjusted the tourniquet and swabbed Brackett's arm with alcohol.  She was in the process of drawing blood when he began to regain consciousness.  Instinctively, he tried to pull away from the source of the pain, but the determined young physician thwarted his efforts.

"Kel, settle down," Dr. Dunn instructed.  "Dixie is almost finished."

Opening his eyes, Brackett was utterly confused.  "What am I doing here?  What happened?"  He struggled to sit up, but was restrained by Dr. Dunn's firm hand.

"You passed out at the nurses' station."

Watching Dixie withdraw the needle and label the vials of blood, Brackett protested.  "Roger, that's not necessary.  I forgot to eat breakfast this morning and got a little dizzy, that's all."

The other emergency physician crossed his arms.  "It appears you've been making a habit of that.  When was the last time you ate?"

"Uh...maybe around six-thirty yesterday morning."

"So you're telling me you haven't consumed anything but caffeine within the past twenty-nine hours?"

Like a boy who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Brackett tried to adopt an aura of contrition.

Dr. Dunn started toward the door.  "I'll get you a Coke or juice, and we'll have someone bring you something from the cafeteria.  Dixie is going to start you on an IV..."

"Now wait a minute...I don't need a stupid IV.  Let me grab a quick bite and I'll be ready to go back to work in a couple of minutes."

"Ah, I don't think you understand.  You're off duty now.  I'm admitting you."

Brackett grunted his displeasure.  "This is ridiculous.  You can't admit me for a syncopal episode."

"You're also physically exhausted and need to be evaluated for gastric complaints."

"I can arrange for that to be done on an outpatient basis."

"Yes, but you haven't," Dr. Dunn countered.

If the beleaguered physician was looking to Dixie for support, he was soon to be disappointed.  She simply shrugged her shoulders.  "Hey, I agree with the man."

"Traitor."

Rolling his eyes, Dr. Dunn pushed the door open.  "I'm going to the vending machine.  I'll be right back."

Once they were alone, Dixie brushed a stray strand of hair away from his forehead.  "How are you feeling?"

"I have a horrible headache, and you're not helping matters by siding with him," he growled.

"It's not a matter of taking sides.  Kel, this is serious.  What if you had passed out while driving?  You could have had an accident and hurt yourself or someone else, like...like Joe did."

The impact of her words stunned him.  He had never thought of it in that light before.  That would make him guilty of the same offense for which he blamed Joe.  After all, hadn't he been pushing himself beyond his ability to function, conveniently ignoring the warning signs out of a misguided sense of obligation?  And how many months had he been consuming antacids because he really didn't want to know what a consultation with a gastroenterologist might reveal?  How did he ever determine the only path to his salvation was a punishing work schedule to atone for his sins?

He draped his arm over his eyes lest anyone see the depths of his anguish.  What had he done?

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Dixie couldn't believe her ears.  After informing Johnny about Brackett's hospital admission, she had expected a more sympathetic response.  She was not prepared to for him to bitterly remark that the doctor had gotten exactly what he deserved.  "Why, Johnny Gage! That's the meanest thing I've ever heard you say!"

The object of her declaration was unmoved.  "Hey, why should I care?  It's his fault I'm here in the first place.  Okay, his and Dr. Early's.  Besides, it's not like either of them have been losing any sleep about me, or keeping a bedside vigil."

"Johnny..."  Dixie silently counted to ten, and then to twenty.  "You're jumping to conclusions.  You have no idea what goes on outside this room."

"Of course I don't! Thanks to them, I haven't been outside of this crummy room in ages.  I'm tied to this bed like an experiment in one of those low budget horror movies Chet likes so much."

Although the enforced bed rest had proved beneficial from a physical standpoint, it was contributing to Johnny's worsening disposition.  Convinced his life was over, he vented his frustrations on anyone within striking distance, and anyone who wasn't.  Fueled by resentment and depression, Johnny continued his diatribe.  "So what if Dr. Early is having seizures and Dr. Brackett might have an ulcer?  Big deal! They both have choices.  Early could have surgery to remove the tumor, and maybe Brackett needs surgery or medication.  But I'm stuck here, languishing in this bed..."

Dixie interrupted his exercise in self-pity.  "Did it ever occur to you that feeling sorry for yourself is a choice, too?  Johnny, your body may be immobilized, but no one is restraining your spirit but you."  Her tone softened, and she held his hand.  "When you're not too busy sulking, you're a nice guy.  I know things must look really hopeless at the moment, but I've never known you to give up before.  Don't start now."

Johnny angrily pulled his hand away from hers.  "I'm not starting.  I've already given up."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

A restless Brackett picked at his IV while the gastroenterologist reviewed his chart.  Since his admission a couple of days ago, he had been climbing the walls.  As director of emergency services, he was accustomed to providing medical care, not receiving it.  The novelty of the experience did not make it any more enjoyable.  After Brackett made a clandestine raid on his office the night of his admission, Dr. Mueller had taken draconian measures.  His briefcase had been removed from his room, along with several stacks of files, binders and his beloved coffeepot.  Determined to make sure his recalcitrant patient rested during his hospitalization, Dr. Mueller ordered hefty doses of Valium during the day, and Seconal at bedtime.  Over the past two days, the nurses had been treated to an interesting metamorphosis in their patient's vocabulary and attitude, and by this point, several of them were in dire need of the same medications.

Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Brackett pounded his fist against the railing.  "C'mon, Bob.  Do I have a hole in my gut or not?"

The prematurely gray-haired man grinned.  "A little impatient, aren't you?  You must have been a handful when you were a kid.  I'll bet you even opened your presents on Christmas Eve."

"That's totally irrelevant.  Besides, I didn't need to.  I managed to sneak a peek at most of my presents as soon as they were placed under the tree, and then neatly taped everything back in place.  How do you think I got such an early start honing my diagnostic skills?"

Dr. Mueller chuckled as he sat in the hideously bright orange vinyl chair.  "Oh, so you've always been a challenge."  Resting the chart on his knees, he delivered the bad news.  "Okay, here's the deal.  You definitely have a bleeding ulcer."

"Shit."

"On the bright side, it's relatively superficial, the blood loss is minimal, and surgical intervention isn't indicated at this time."

Brackett's demeanor visibly brightened.  "So that's it?  I just take some meds and go about my business?"

"That's not what I said."  Steepling his fingers, Dr. Mueller rested them against his chin.  "Business as usual is what got you here.  All work and no play makes Kel a sick boy.  You can't live on caffeine and adrenaline forever.  If you keep up this frenetic pace and stress level, it will kill you.  In addition to the medication and bland diet I'm going to prescribe, you need to cut back on your hours, maybe take some time off."

"Bob, have you completely lost your mind?  Do you have any idea what it takes to keep the emergency room staffed these days?"

"Kel, I hate to be the bearer of sad tidings, but you're not indispensable.  If you dropped dead tomorrow, life at Rampart would still go on."

Pulling at the IV tape again, Brackett snorted.  "Gee, Bob.  Your bedside manner is so comforting."

Dr. Mueller was unfazed.  "I'm not trying to comfort you.  I'm trying to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours."  Reaching for the metal chart, he regarded his troublesome patient.  "If I release you this afternoon, do I have your word you won't make a beeline for your office?"

"You're letting me go home?"

With a flourish, Dr. Mueller began writing the discharge orders.  "Yeah.  There's no medical basis to keep you here.  Your electrolytes are within normal limits, and we've run all of the necessary tests to confirm the diagnosis.  And quite frankly, I'm more concerned about the nurses at this point.  The way you've been whining and complaining for the past couple of days, I'm afraid you're going to give them ulcers."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

While his temporary partner was having a minor work-related injury attended to, Roy took the opportunity to enjoy a moment of relative peace and quiet at the nurses' station.  Gabriel Martinez was a good man with a big heart, but his constant chatter was driving Roy to despair.  Even Johnny's famous rants were more focused and less annoying.  Gabriel's conversations tended to drift from topic to topic without rhyme or reason, inflicting a peculiar form of verbal whiplash upon his victims.  They were only two hours into their shift on Monday morning, and Roy already had a pounding headache from trying to keep up with Gabriel's convoluted logic.

Plucking a pen from the desk, a harried Dixie closed the drawer with more force than was necessary.

Roy propped his elbows on the counter.  "Tough day?"

"You have no idea.  I hid Kel's personal coffeepot and restocked the lounge with Sanka, so he's been a real bear today."

"He's back at work already?  I thought you said his doctor told him to take some time off."

Realizing the pen was out of ink, Dixie tossed it into the trash can and reached back into the desk.  "He did, but Kel is hell-bent on working himself to death out of a weird sense of guilt."

Her words struck a responsive chord.  "I'm not sure which is worse.  On the other hand, Johnny has completely given up, certain he'll never be able to work again."

"Yeah, and then there's Joe, who apparently doesn't want to work.  I don't understand any of this.  That damned accident caused a lot more than physical injuries.  They're all so busy blaming themselves and each other.  What are they possibly thinking?"

Embarrassed, Roy studied his boots.  "Uh, I think I understand a little bit."

Dixie looked up from her notes.  "Okay, enlighten me."

"After the accident, I felt so helpless.  I couldn't wave a magic wand and make everything all better.  By blaming myself, I could feel like I was in control of something again."

"Roy DeSoto, that's about the dumbest thing I've ever heard!"

He laughed.  "So I've been told."

"I hope you don't still believe that."

"No, a special woman in my life straightened me out."  Roy picked up the HT.  "It's a shame Johnny, Dr. Brackett and Dr. Early don't have a special woman in their lives to give them a swift kick in the butt."

Leaping from behind the desk, Dixie wrapped her arms around Roy in an enthusiastic hug.  "Maybe they do.  You've just given me a terrific idea! Thanks!"

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Brackett was sifting through a mountain of paperwork at his desk when Dixie handed him a single piece of paper.  Without looking up, Brackett accepted the typewritten letter from his head nurse.  "What is this?"

Dixie tried not to look insufferably smug.  "It's my resignation.  I'm giving you a two week notice."

His face visibly paled.  "You can't do that!"

She crossed her arms and jutted her chin out, striking a defiant pose.  "I refuse to stay here any longer and watch my friends willingly self-destruct.  You're working yourself to death, probably from a perforated ulcer, Joe is refusing to have an operable tumor removed, and Johnny's depression is spiraling out of control.  He's refusing to eat or undergo physical therapy.  Maybe if I'm not here to witness this mess, it won't upset me anymore."

Seeking to placate his potential ex-employee, Brackett tried to reason with her.  "Dix, you don't understand..."

"What is there to understand?  That you guys still blame yourselves and each other for the accident?"

"It's not that simple."

"Okay, then explain it me."

Several seconds elapsed while the emergency room physician tried to construct a plausible reason.  When none was forthcoming, Dixie tapped her foot.  "I'm waiting," she reminded him.

He wildly tossed the letter onto his desk.  "Arrggghhhh! You're not playing fair! You changed the subject.  What can I do to convince you to change your mind?  Do you need some time off?  A pay increase?"

The corners of her mouth turned upward in a slight smile.  "There is one thing that would make me happy, and it wouldn't cost the department a dime."

Intrigued, Brackett leaned back in his chair.  "What is your price?"

"I want you to schedule a group session with Chris Hauser.  Obviously since Johnny is still bedridden, you guys will have to meet in his room."

"Whoa, whoa! Wait a minute! You have to be kidding me! You want us to see a shrink?"

Dixie nodded enthusiastically.

"This-this-is...."  Brackett stammered as he searched for the right words.  "Dixie, this is blackmail!"

"No, Kel.  It's the act of a desperate friend.  Look, maybe if given enough time, you guys will come to your senses and make amends.  But all of you have medical conditions that are complicating this issue.  Yes, I know you were having problems with your stomach before the accident, but it's gotten much worse since then.  The stress is literally eating you alive.  How are you guys going to make your apologies if you succumb to peritonitis from a perforated ulcer, or Joe suffers from a seizure and sustains a brain injury from hitting his head on something, or Johnny blows his brains out because he prematurely gave up on physical therapy and never found out if he could have returned a job he loved?"

"Dix, aren't you being a bit melodramatic?  And besides, even if I do make the appointment, I can't guarantee they would be willing to go."

She nonchalantly tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear.  "Leave that to me."

"What are you going to do?  Threaten them with a letter of resignation, too?"

She picked up the phone and handed it to him.  "I'll do my job, and you do yours.  Get busy."

Flipping through his Rolodex, he scowled at the spunky nurse.  "You're absolutely ruthless."

"Yup, but you never complain when this particular talent keeps your department running smoothly."

With a grand gesture, Brackett pointed toward the door.  "Scram.  I have a phone call to make."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

A couple of days later, three very unhappy men faced the dreaded psychiatrist with the enthusiasm of lambs being led to slaughter.  The atmosphere was tense and hostile as though they were expecting an Old West style shoot-out instead of a group therapy session.  Brackett's eyes drifted toward the clock mounted on the wall, and couldn't help but appreciate the irony.  It was almost high noon, time for the showdown to begin.  Now he had an inkling of what Gary Cooper's character must have felt like, having to face his adversary while his so-called friends looked on.

Johnny suspiciously sized up the intruder.  Dixie had told him the psychiatrist was thirty-eight and happily married, but the nurses still shamelessly swooned over him anyway.  He could understand why.  The doctor was tall, muscular, tanned, had longish sun-streaked blond hair, and looked more he should be hanging out on the beach with a surfboard than practicing medicine.  Good grief, the man was even wearing a Hawaiian shirt under his sports coat! Did he come in on his day off, or did he always dress like this?

Early slouched in his chair.  Deeply embarrassed by his last hospitalization, he had shied away from Rampart whenever possible.  Thus, he was not pleased when a certain head nurse browbeat him into submission and persuaded him to attend today's session.  He wasn't sure whether he was angrier at Dixie for badgering him to come in, or at himself for giving in too easily.

Setting his yellow legal pad aside, Dr. Hauser addressed the unwilling participants.  "Okay, gentlemen.  I've been provided with a brief history, but I want to hear the story from your point of view.  I understand there was an accident on October 9th of this year?"

Johnny scoffed.  "Accident.  That's one way of putting it."

The psychiatrist straightened his tie.  "I take it you have another opinion?"

"Damned right I do."  Pointing a finger toward Early, Johnny presented his version of events.  "He blatantly ignored the warning signs of a brain tumor and didn't bother to tell anyone he couldn't see the broad side of a barn.  So when he offered to give me a lift..."

Early fired back.  "It's your own fault.  If you wouldn't have been whining about needing a ride..."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault I got stranded.  I'm not the one who took the squad to the mechanic's."

"But you're the one who was complaining that you were going to miss your precious spaghetti dinner."

"Look, I didn't hold you at gunpoint and force you to drop me off at the station.  You volunteered."

"I was only trying the spare the staff from your theatrics," Early shot back.  "You were harassing poor Dixie..."

Johnny readjusted his position in the bed.  "I was not harassing her.  I was just talking.  Besides, if I had known then what I know now, I never would have gotten into that car with you.  You had no business driving that evening, or any other evening for that matter.  Your incompetence and arrogance nearly got us killed."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean.  For heaven's sake, you're a neurosurgeon.  How could you not know something was wrong?"

The words infuriated Early.  "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone! I seem to remember a certain person who once ignored the early symptoms of a life-threatening virus, endangering not only his own life, but the life of the person he was sent to rescue in the first place."

Brackett immediately jumped to Johnny's defense.  "Wait a minute, Joe.  I almost died of that same virus.  In all fairness, it sneaked up on us before we realized what was happening."

Shifting his attention to his colleague, Early sneered.  "Oh, come on, Kel.  Surely you had some vague symptoms that you probably attributed to another cause at first.  Like headaches, perhaps?"

"Yeah, but they didn't last for months.  I would imagine those would be a little difficult to ignore."

"You seemed to be content to conveniently ignore them as long as I showed up for work every day and you came in under budget."

"So it's my fault you have a brain tumor?"

"You certainly didn't go out of your way to make sure I received the medical attention I needed."

Brackett was developing a wicked headache of his own.  "Since when did I become your keeper?"

"You were my boss," Early growled, "and I thought you were my friend."

"Oh, I see.  So as the director of emergency services, am I responsible for the physical well-being of the entire staff?  Am I supposed to make sure Mike Morton has an annual physical, and Dixie gets her teeth cleaned twice a year?"

"Stop being absurd! Your pigheadedness is what got us into this mess in the first place."

"Oh, yeah?  From where I'm sitting, you've done a pretty good job of contributing to the problem yourself.  If you could have set aside your foolish pride and undergone a neurological evaluation months ago, you could have had this problem treated at an earlier stage before the symptoms became debilitating."

"Uh huh.  In other words, I would already be back at work to bail you out of the staffing crisis."

Dr. Hauser held up his hands in a time-out signal.  "Okay, okay.  I get the picture."  He chewed on the end of his pen for a moment.  "Have you guys been at each other's throats like this since day one?"

Johnny clumsily lifted the Styrofoam pitcher and refilled his water glass.  "No.  In fact, I tried to cover his butt."

"Whose butt?"

"Dr. Early's.  At first I thought the accident was my fault because I didn't steer the car out of the way in time, and then I felt guilty for ratting him out..."

"Hold it, back up a minute.  Why did you think the accident was your fault?"

"Because my hands were on the steering wheel at the time of impact."

"And why was that?"

Twirling the straw around in the glass, Johnny reflected back to the evening of the accident.  "Because I didn't think Dr. Early saw the car and I was afraid we were going to get hit."

The psychiatrist loosened his necktie.  "After the accident, why did you feel the need to cover up for Dr. Early?"

"I thought he was my friend, and I didn't want to get him into trouble."

"So rather than blame Dr. Early, you blamed yourself.  Right?"

Johnny took a sip of cool water while he considered the doctor's statement.  "Yeah.  I figured if he hadn't been helping me out by giving me a ride, he wouldn't have been in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Brackett tiredly rubbed his face.  "Johnny, don't do this to yourself.  If this was anyone's fault, it was mine.  Joe's right, I should have encouraged him to see someone, but he kept reassuring me he was fine, that the headaches were probably stress-related.  I know I should have pressed the issue, but it seemed like a logical explanation under the circumstances.  I was eating antacids right and left, so it didn't seem unreasonable that Joe would be consuming large quantities of aspirin.  I just assumed our stress was manifesting in different ways.  Less than an hour before the accident, I finally persuaded him to agree to a headache work up.  Then I sent him home, right into harm's way."

The room was silent for several minutes.  Finally, Early spoke up in a soft voice.  "Kel, if anyone is to blame it's me.  You and Johnny are right.  I'm a neurosurgeon, and I know better.  If only I had...I'm so terribly sorry."

His legs crossed at the knee, Dr. Hauser lazily swung a Doc Marten clad foot.  "Hmm.  This is all very fascinating, but so far all I've heard is a lot of blame and guilt being tossed around amongst the three of you.  But so far, there's one name I've yet to hear mentioned."

Johnny appeared genuinely baffled.  "You mean Roy?"

"No.  I was thinking about the driver of the other car."  Dr. Hauser paused as he flicked a piece of gravel from the sole of his boot.  "You know, I have a friend at LAPD who provided me with some interesting information.  The driver's name was Ted Marsh, and he was thirty-seven years old.  Over the past fifteen years, he was charged with eleven DWIs, three of which resulted in injuries to other individuals.  Incredibly, he never spent a day in jail.  He served a total of ninety days probation, and after his last offense, his driver's license was revoked."

Early was visibly shaken.  "You mean this moron had no business on the street on the first place?"

"That's absurd!" Brackett declared.  "He should have been locked up years ago."

Johnny echoed their sentiments.  "Yeah.  It's a miracle he didn't kill anyone.  How could someone let this happen?"

Dr. Hauser leaned back in the uncomfortable vinyl chair.  "From a legal standpoint, I can't begin to understand or explain why.  For as long as I can remember, drunk driving hasn't been considered a serious crime.  Therefore, it isn't aggressively prosecuted under the current system.  But speaking from a practical standpoint, there's nothing anyone could have done to keep Mr. Marsh from drinking and driving.  He was of legal age, able to purchase alcohol, and even though his license was revoked, he had access to a car."

"Oh, man!  That takes the cake.  We've been beating ourselves up and blaming each other about this for weeks, and it turns out this idiot had a history of endangering people.  Geez!  This is out of control!"

Not one usually given to introspection, Brackett's expression grew serious.  "Now that I think about it, I remember how helpless I felt that evening at the base station when the call came in.  Issuing a few orders to the paramedics seemed so inadequate.  I wanted to be there.  Somehow assuming responsibility or guilt made me feel I was in control of something again."

Johnny nodded.  "I know what you mean.  It doesn't make any sense, but I thought I could make everything better if I blamed myself or someone else enough."

Early agreed.  "If this would have happened to a patient, I could have spotted it a mile away.  It's different when it's you or a friend."

Picking up the legal pad, Dr. Hauser placed it in his lap.  "I'm not here to pass judgment, just help put things in perspective.  If you guys want to meet again either on a group or individual basis, I'll be happy to set something up."

The neurosurgeon smiled.  "I'll think about it.  First, maybe I need to schedule an appointment with Sam Vance after the Thanksgiving holidays."

Johnny was astonished.  "You're gonna have the surgery?  For real?"

"I've been considering it.  Besides, I need to get back to work as soon as possible so Kel can take a real vacation.  After these past few weeks, the emergency room staff deserves a break from him!"

Brackett feigned mock indignation.  "Hmmph.  With that attitude, I'll have to give your re-employment status serious consideration."

Rubbing his hands together with pretended glee, Early pondered his style of management.  "In your absence, I'll rule the department with an iron fist.  I'll even force the hospital administrators to empty bedpans."

"Oooooh.  I like your style."

"Hey, I figure it's only fair since they've been slinging crap our way for the past six months.  Poetic justice, don't you think?"

Affectionately slapping his friend on the back, Brackett beamed.  "It will be great to have you back, Joe."

Johnny displayed his most charming crooked grin.  "Hey, Doc.  Since you're not supposed to have caffeine anymore, do you suppose I can have your coffeepot?"

Brackett appeared to mull the idea over.  "But Johnny, if I did that, you wouldn't have an excuse to pester the nurses."

His colleague concurred.  "That's true.  Kel, didn't you say only four of the nurses on this floor are married?"

"Three."

This was apparently news to Johnny, and he instinctively combed his hair with his fingers.  "What?  How come I never noticed that before?"

Rising to his feet, Dr. Hauser winked as he tucked the metal chart and legal pad under his arm.  "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I have sick patients who actually need me."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The day after Thanksgiving, the men of A-Shift gathered in the dayroom after finishing their assigned duties.  Mike was helping himself to a leftover doughnut, while Gabriel was muttering various oaths in Spanish as he tried to adjust the television set's antenna.  "Hijole!  Look at this!  There's nothing but blue snow on every channel.  What happened?"

Chet gently shoved Henry to one side of the couch and sat down.  "The guys from the last shift said a transformer blew last night, and the picture has been like that ever since.  That's too bad.  There's a great creature feature on at eight tonight."

Abandoning his efforts, Gabriel hastily turned the knob to the off position.  "On the bright side, we'll be spared from having to watch another B horror movie."

"You guys have absolutely no appreciation of culture."  Stroking his now full mustache, Chet watched the other paramedic pour a tall glass of milk.  "Hey, Roy.  Did you see Johnny yesterday?"

"No.  He said he had other plans."

Marco was perplexed.  "Other plans?"

Putting the milk carton back in the refrigerator, Roy grinned.  "Yup.  Now that he's not confined to bed anymore, he's been more...active.  I believe his exact words to me on Wednesday were, 'Don't take this the wrong way, Roy, but if you show up here on Thanksgiving, I'll kill you.'"

"A girl?" Mike asked.

"We're talking about Johnny," Chet answered excitedly.  "Sounds like he's gonna be okay."

Ever sensible, Roy urged caution.  "It's still too early to tell about his leg, but his attitude sure has improved.  He actually wants to get better now."

Chet didn't need to understand the medical gobbledygook regarding Johnny's recovery and rehabilitation.  In his heart, he somehow knew it was merely a matter of time before his favorite pigeon was back.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Studying the new CT scans clipped on the light box, Sam Vance murmured his approval.  "Not much growth since the last scan.  When do you want to do this, Joe?"

Early nervously drummed his fingers on the armrest.  "'Want' is an interesting way of phrasing it, but I suppose the sooner the better."

"Do I sense second thoughts?"

"Second thoughts, third thoughts...yeah.  Intellectually, I know that if a person is going to develop a brain tumor, a meningioma has certain advantages.  Judging by the size and location, the excision should be pretty straightforward.  I'm aware of the potential risks, possibility of recurrence and all of that, but there's a huge difference between performing and undergoing the procedure.  To answer your question, I'd like to get this out of the way before the Christmas holidays."

"Great.  I have a couple of openings next week."  Dr. Vance flipped through the pages of his surgical calendar.  "How about Thursday, December 16th?"

Part of him felt like he was scheduling his own execution rather than a surgical procedure, but another part of him realized it was a necessary evil.  Early also understood that the sooner he put this behind him, the sooner he could resume a normal life.  Normal.  Had it only been two months ago today?  It was amazing how complicated his life had become within such a short span of time.  Mentally nudging himself out of his reverie, he answered the doctor's question.  "December 16th will be fine."

Fine.

The word felt wonderful rolling off his tongue.

Everything was going to be just fine.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

After being confined to bed for nearly two months, Johnny was extremely excited about his newfound freedom.  Both casts were gone, and he had begun the grueling physical therapy sessions in earnest.  Johnny could tolerate bearing weight on his right leg for short periods of time, although he still needed a walker at this point.  However, he felt it was an equitable tradeoff.  He decided there were even advantages to his clumsy attempts to navigate the hallways with the metal walker.  It added to his rakish charm, and projected a certain vulnerability that members of the female species found irresistible.  On more than one occasion, Johnny had deliberately exaggerated his distress in order to elicit sympathy or to get a pretty nurse's phone number.  It was almost as effective as a dazzling crooked grin.

Surprisingly, one of his most faithful visitors over the past couple of weeks had been Cookie.  A few days before Thanksgiving, she had stopped by to see how he was doing.  Johnny apologized profusely for behaving like a jerk on Halloween when he threw her out of his room, but she insisted the incident had long since been forgotten.  From her conversations with Roy and the staff at Rampart, she knew Johnny didn't have any family in the area, and wanted to know if he had any special plans for the upcoming holiday.  When he admitted he didn't, Cookie offered to spend the day with him.  Shortly before noon, she arrived carrying a large picnic basket filled with traditional Thanksgiving foods.  In between bites of turkey, dressing and pumpkin pie, Johnny discovered that Cookie loved to go fishing and camping.  Her family owned a modest cabin near Lake Nacimiento, and she invited him to spend a weekend with them when he got out of the hospital.

Johnny knew it would probably be a long time before he was able to navigate rugged terrain, but the prospect of being outdoors again made the grueling physical therapy sessions more bearable.  In his own way, he was already scaling mountains...one small step at a time.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Two days after Early's surgery, his doctor was examining the incision.  The sensation of cold air on his scalp was unnerving, and Early instinctively wanted to reach toward the surgical site.  A light tap on his fingers thwarted his action.

"Don't touch.  If you want to look, we can get a couple of mirrors."

Early considered the offer.  "No, I guess not.  It would only confirm my worst suspicions that I'm officially a patient."

"An impatient patient at that."  Dr. Vance stripped off his latex gloves.  "Everything looks great.  You'll be out of here in no time."

"How long do you plan to continue the Dilantin?  Three months?"

"Probably.  We'll play it by ear.  You know it works.  At least three months before I'd even consider letting you go back to work, and then the six-month mandatory driving restriction.  Since the tumor was benign and you won't have to follow up with chemo or radiation, it's reasonable to assume we can stick with that schedule unless you experience seizure activity after we stop the anticonvulsant."

He knew it was irrational, but somehow Early had hoped that being a neurosurgeon would exempt him from the standard recovery protocol.  Tugging at his hospital identification bracelet, Early smiled at his surgeon.  "Sam, I'm sorry for behaving like a horse's behind.  Thanks for everything."

Dr. Vance playfully slugged him on the arm.  "No problem.  But next time you get a headache, give me a call right away and save everyone a lot of grief."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

A week before Christmas, Brackett decided he had played by the rules long enough.  Indulging in his prerogative as the head of the department, he took a rare day off from work.  Armed with a briefcase full of notes, contact names and telephone numbers, Brackett prepared to wage war on the administration department and board of directors.  Tired of their apparent indifference to his warnings that the drastic budget constraints could seriously compromise the quality of patient care, the day after Early's surgery he reported his concerns to the Joint Commission on Accreditation of Hospitals.  In a desperate effort to obtain additional funding for the emergency department, he also contacted a couple of local philanthropic foundations that had provided generous contributions to the hospital in the past.  He was shocked to discover that the Schering and Cavuto Foundations had recently awarded significant sums of money to Rampart within the past year, of which a large percentage of the proceeds were to be allocated to the emergency department.  When the administrator, Wayne Rivers, had refused to provide an accounting of the funds, Brackett contacted the organizations to notify them their generous contributions were not being distributed per the terms specified.  He was assured an audit would be performed, but thus far, he had not received any further communication from either foundation.

Brackett had also contacted an old friend, now an investigative reporter for The Los Angeles Times, to help him unravel the mystery.  During their last conversation, Matt had hinted at some interesting developments, but he wanted to double-check some sources before jumping to conclusions.  Flipping through his notes, Brackett found Matt's office number and began dialing.

A slightly harried voice answered.  "L.A.  Times, Matt Connors."

"Hey, Matt.  It's Kelly Brackett.  How goes the muckraking business?"

"Oooooh.  I'm so glad you called.  I've been busy on your little project."

Picking up the phone, Brackett carried it to the kitchen table where his notes were scattered.  "Okay, let's hear it."

"I was able to trace some of your missing funds.  It seems Wayne and his friends have been busy."

"How so?"

Matt could barely conceal his glee over his accomplishment.  "Wayne's been diverting funds to renovate the hospital into some sort of five-star hotel for wealthy patients.  He's allocated about two million dollars to convert the lobby into an atrium with skylights, plants, fancy furniture...the whole nine yards.  That's not including the twenty-five thousand for the grand piano.  He's also converting the entire fifth floor into VIP suites, and even plans to hire chefs to cater to the new upscale clientele."

Brackett pounded his fist on the table.  "Clientele?  For heaven's sake!  Rampart is a hospital.  We're supposed to take care of the sick and injured.  What the hell is he thinking?"

"Obviously you guys aren't attracting the right kind of patients."

"You mean they're not sick and rich?"

"Something like that.  Oh, and by the way, your charitable foundations have been applying some pressure.  Once they found out the Joint Commission has flagged Rampart for an audit, they've been making some demands on the board of directors.  I don't know when this will all come down, but there's going to be some major housecleaning.  Some heads are going roll for this."

Brackett sipped his glass of ice water.  He had mixed feelings about the news.  On the one hand, he was relieved to finally know what he was dealing with.  Yet, he was concerned his activities would cause irreparable harm to the hospital's reputation.  "Uh, Matt?  How big do you think this story is going to be?"

Matt's disappointment was palpable.  "It's not.  Like I said, your foundations have been applying some pressure, and they have some very influential friends.  It's a damn shame, too.  I was really looking forward to that Pulitzer."

"Would it help if I solemnly promised to give you a call when I run across another scandal?"

The reporter erupted into explosive laughter.  "Kel, you're the most boring person I know.  It's a good thing I don't have to depend upon you for leads or I'd starve to death!"

Arching his back, Brackett rolled his head back and forth to unkink the tension in his neck.  "Thanks, Matt.  You don't know how much I appreciate you looking into this.  If there's ever anything I can do..."

"Yeah, yeah.  You can start with providing me with the name of a good psychiatrist to help me get over the loss of my Pulitzer.  Take care, Kel."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Two days before Christmas, the men from A-Shift gathered in Johnny's hospital room to visit their convalescing colleague.  A small artificial tree festooned with popcorn and construction paper garlands stood in the corner.  There was an almost Charlie Brown-like quality to the sparse faux pine tree.  Fragile branches were weighed down with multi-colored lights and oversized ornaments Roy's children had made or the nursing staff had provided.  Somehow the eclectic sight seemed oddly appropriate.  The scrawny paramedic tended to bring out the nurturing instinct in people, especially when he was sick or injured.

Chet fingered the tiny plastic bass hanging on the tree.  "Hey, Gage.  What does a fish have to do with Christmas?"

"It's sort of an I.O.U."

"Huh?"

Johnny grinned at his friend's confusion.  "It's from Cookie."

Mike dryly remarked, "That certainly explains everything."

Helping himself to the tin of homemade fudge, Roy snickered.  "I dunno.  Johnny has a tendency to defy explanation."

Pointing to a snowman on skis, Marco asked, "Where did you get this ornament from?"

"That's from Angela, my physical therapist."

Captain Stanley tossed his empty coffee cup into the trashcan.  "John, speaking of physical therapy, how is that coming along?"

The sidelined paramedic shrugged his shoulders.  "It's slow, and some days it hurts real bad.  My doctor seems to think I'm doing okay though.  But he said it might take several months before I'll be in any shape to go back to work as a paramedic."

"So you're planning on returning?"

Johnny appeared bewildered.  "Of course.  Where did you get the idea that I wasn't?"

While sipping his Coke, his partner was seized by a sudden coughing spasm.  "Where?" Roy sputtered.  "Gee, I wonder!"

Polishing off a piece of the homemade fudge, Marco reached for another.  "What are you going to do until then?  Go out on disability or take a desk job?"

"Nah.  Brackett said he could probably line something up for me in a teaching capacity.  He said the paramedic program might be expanding to allow us to do more stuff in the field."  Johnny winked at Roy.  "Who knows, I might get a chance to grade you."

Roy groaned.  "Does this mean you'll start calling me Junior?"

Digging into his windbreaker, Chet retrieved a small package.  "Johnny, I don't want you to get the wrong idea or anything, you know, that I'm getting mushy, but I got you a little Christmas present."

"Why, thanks, Chester B."  Johnny eagerly unwrapped the bright red tissue paper, and was puzzled by the strange gift.  "Uh, that's really nice, Chet.  Chocolate covered Macadamia nuts.  I never would have thought of that."

"C'mon, Johnny boy.  Haven't you ever had them before?  They're a real delicacy."

Johnny lifted the metal lid, and screamed when a cloth snake sprung out of the can.  "Chet!"

The unexpected noise startled Marco, and he knocked his soft drink from the bedside table.  Marco glowered at his friend.  "I thought you said you were going to retire the Phantom."

Chet splayed his hand across his chest.  "Don't you see?  I only meant that when I thought my favorite pigeon was permanently wounded.  Now that I know he's going to be okay, he's fair game."

The firefighter's prank touched Johnny's heart.  Yes, the joke was incredibly corny and yes, he was incredibly gullible for falling for it.  It was also the first time since the accident that he absolutely knew everything was going to be all right.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Despite the tribulations over the past eight months, a festive atmosphere permeated the emergency department.  Several nurses and a couple of interns had volunteered to decorate the department during their scarce personal time, and it seemed every doorway and available surface was draped with colorful garlands.  Wanting to reward a loyal staff that had endured so many hardships, Brackett reached into his checkbook and issued modest bonuses out of his own funds.  In another small token of appreciation, Brackett paid for food to be catered for all three shifts that day.  Everyone was infected with the holiday spirit, and the doctor was almost embarrassed by the outpouring of thanks he received.

He was standing at the desk chatting with Dixie when a familiar figure approached.  Setting his cup of punch on the counter, he greeted the new arrival with a hearty bear hug.  "Pat Hannity, you old dog!  What brings you to this neck of the woods, Red?  Want to see how real emergency medicine is practiced?"

The copper-haired man grinned.  "Practiced?  You mean you still haven't gotten it right?  Actually, I'm here to work on a contract basis for a while.  Our service got a call from your new administrator to line up some short-term help for you guys."

"New administrator?"  So Matt's investigation was already paying off.  The shake-up in administration had already begun.  "Hmm.  I wonder if we'll also get some nurses on a temporary basis until we can sort out some budget issues."

"Jeff, our business manager, said he was lining up something with the woman in charge of the nursing division."

Dixie enthusiastically clasped her hands together.  "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!"

Brackett could feel the burden he had carried for so long finally lift from his shoulders.  For some reason, he thought of the character Ebeneezer Scrooge from Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.  The heavy chains that had been forged over the past several months were breaking and falling away, and his heart was filled with joyful anticipation.  In a moment of whimsy, he raised his cup of punch and quoted a famous line from the book.  "God bless us, every one."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

In mid-April, Johnny was catching up on some household chores before he started his part-time assignment at Rampart.  He was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions.  After undergoing a total of three surgeries, enduring weeks in ICU, nearly two months of enforced bed rest, one month in a rehabilitation facility, followed by three months of intensive outpatient therapy, he was finally going back to work, albeit in a different capacity.  Although he would be involved in the paramedic program, he still felt a sense of loss.  Johnny knew it would be a long time before he could work in the field again, and patience had never been his greatest virtue.  Yet, he was also excited about learning and teaching new procedures.  As the program had proved its value to the community, paramedics were being entrusted with greater responsibility in pre-hospital care.  In a nutshell, he was excited and scared at the same time, and he could hardly wait for Monday morning to arrive.

Johnny was somewhat relieved that Brackett would only allow him to work half days at first.  He still required physical therapy on a regular basis, and he was grateful for the accommodation.  As he was sitting on the couch folding his laundry, he heard a loud knock at the door.  Frowning, he looked at his watch.  Roy wasn't due for another five hours to pick him up for dinner, and he had hoped to get some more chores done before then.

Peering through the peephole, Johnny was surprised to see Early.  He hurriedly opened the door.  "Hey, Doc.  What's up?"

Early thrust a large box into Johnny's hands.  "Happy Birthday."

"Birthday?  My birthday isn't until August."

"Okay, so consider it a belated get well present then."

Accepting the box, Johnny invited the doctor into his apartment.  "Can I get you anything to drink?  A soda or coffee?"

"No, I'm fine."  Looking for a spot not covered in freshly laundered clothes, Early moved a stack of t-shirts aside and sat on the couch.  "Aren't you going to open it?"

Johnny set the present on the kitchen table and ripped off the paper.  "A stereo?"

"The rest of it is in my car.  I can go get it in a few minutes, unless you need the exercise as part of your physical therapy," he joked.

Overwhelmed by the generous gift, Johnny stammered.  "Uh...Doc...um...I can't...this is way...I mean, I can't take this.  It's too expensive."

Early disagreed.  "Johnny, I nearly lost several priceless things this year:  my career, my friends and possibly my life.  It's the least I could do.  I know how much you wanted a new stereo.  I'm sorry you never got the chance to win the raffle."

"Raffle?  What are you talking about?"

"Don't you remember our conversation in the car before the accident?  You said you were almost tied with Dwyer for first place in the annual firefighter's picnic fundraiser."

Johnny slapped his forehead.  "Oh, man!  I completely forgot about that.  But you didn't need to go out and buy me a stereo."

"I know I didn't need to, but I wanted to.  Besides, after the amount of money I shelled out for a new car, this was peanuts.  Thank goodness Kel's revised budget allows him to pay me a better salary these days."

"New car?  Oh, yeah.  What did you get?  Another Mercedes?"

Early winced.  "Heavens no!  I don't want to invite bad luck.  I got something a bit more...sporty."  Blushing, the doctor confessed, "I bought a red Ferrari."

The paramedic's eyes lit up.  "Wow.  Testosterone on wheels, a real babe magnet."  Pulling the curtain back, Johnny was disappointed that the car wasn't visible from his window.  "Where are you parked?"

"Around the corner.  Do you want to go for a spin?"

An eerie sense of déjà vu came over both men, and an awkward silence followed.  They simultaneously recalled that six months ago, they had been seriously injured in an accident the last time the doctor had offered Johnny a ride.  Early was the first to speak.  "Um, if you don't want to go, I'll understand."

Deciding trust had to begin somewhere, Johnny grabbed his keys and his sunglasses.  "C'mon, Doc.  Let's go!"  Almost immediately, he realized he had repeated the same four words he had uttered just before the two of them left Rampart on that fateful day, when a series of unfortunate circumstances had come dangerously close to destroying several lives.  However, through the power of forgiveness, the ghosts of the past had been put to rest.  The invisible wounds that had run the deepest and caused so much grief had finally healed.  Closing his apartment door, Johnny contentedly gazed at the California sky.  It was a beautiful day for a ride.

finis