Third Degree (11 page)

I snap the end cap off the EpiPen and pull up the leg of his gym shorts.

“What the hell—?” Holloway says just before I press the button sending the needle into Longfield’s thigh.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand …

After ten seconds, I remove the auto-injector, toss it aside, and massage the muscle in his thigh, making sure the medicine circulates. He finally pulls in a huge breath of air, gasping loudly. I press my fingers to his wrist and instinctively reach for an imaginary stethoscope around my neck. I have to settle for laying an ear against his chest, listening to his breathing. His heart rate speeds up as a result of the medicine. I lift my head when I hear his teeth chattering.

“Do you feel nauseous?” I ask.

He shakes head and closes his eyes. I decide not to take a chance and roll him slightly on his side. The reddish blue color of his face is quickly fading to pale and his hands and legs are visibly trembling.

“Is it nuts?”

He shakes his head again and his fingers grapple around for the sleeve of his shirt. When he lifts it, I lean closer and see the raised red mark. Immediately I play back our run around the track and try to recall him reacting to an insect sting, but can’t, despite the fact that I’d been staring at his back almost the whole time.

“Bees or wasps?”

“Bees,” he manages to say.

That explains his delayed concerns. Accidental ingestion of food allergens is much more
common than being stung by a bee. At least he takes it seriously and carries the EpiPen on him.

“Izzy?”

I finally allow the background noise to reenter my radar. Marshall is kneeling in front of the patient, studying his face. “Why are his teeth chattering? Is he going into shock?”

“He already went into shock. It’s the epinephrine making him feel cold. That’s normal.”

Sirens blare in the background and quickly grow louder and closer. I press my fingers to his wrist again and tune out the noise, counting his beats. When I’m finished, there are two paramedics in front of us. I fight off the instinct to snatch one of their stethoscopes and listen to his chest.

“Pulse is one-eighty, epinephrine four minutes ago. He needs oxygen, albuterol treatment, and antihistamines,” I rattle off.

Both paramedics pause for a split second to look me over, probably trying to decide if I’m more than a student. “What’s his name?”

Oh. They aren’t jumping to the conclusion that I’m a teenage doctor; they think I’m his girlfriend or a relative. “I don’t know … something Longfield.”

“Joe,” Holloway says, reading off his clipboard. “Joseph Longfield.”

Both paramedics and Holloway are now giving me strange looks.

“Her sister has peanut allergies,” Marshall lies, coming to my rescue.

Okay, Izzy, you’re done. Back away from the patient. Pretend it’s an ER consult that turns out to be non-surgical
.

I carefully slide backward, allowing the female paramedic to move into my spot. She’s collecting the used EpiPen, tucking it into her shirt pocket. She glances over at me. “How long ago, did you say?”

“Six now. His airway was completely constricted, so he might only have a few more minutes.”

Joe grabs hold of the girl’s shirt. “Wait, it’s gonna happen again?”

The girl gives him a warm smile. “Nope. Not a chance. We’ll take care of you.”

I finally feel secure enough to stand up and dust off my pants. Holloway shouts that class is over—
duh
—and then he follows the stretcher to the ambulance. I take my time walking over to the inside of the track to retrieve my water bottle, and on the way a couple of students pat me on the back and say, “Good job,” which is a nice contrast to the glares I got after the last class. The ambulance backs out of the parking lot, and Holloway is nowhere in sight. He must have gone to the hospital with Joe.

As I’m heading toward the dorm, I barely notice Marshall joining me. He holds his hand out in front of me, displaying the obvious tremble. “I’m still freaking out. How are you not?”

“You mean about blowing my cover?”

“I mean about the dude who almost died right in front of us!” Marshall stares at me, this incredulous expression on his face like I’m an alien and he can’t figure out what planet I’ve descended from. “He couldn’t breathe, right? It totally looked like he couldn’t breathe.”

“Probably swelling of the back of the throat and tongue.”

Marshall steps in front of me, grips my shoulders, and gives them a little shake. “That was fucking scary, wasn’t it? Just appease me and say yes, because I’m feeling like a total wimp right now.”

I laugh and shake myself from his grip. His shirt is tucked under his arm and I don’t want to get caught staring at his chest for too long. “Only scary if he hadn’t been prepared for the allergic reaction.” I do the calculations in my head. “I would have done CPR right away, so he probably would have made it to the hospital alive, since the paramedics responded so quickly—”

Joe Longfield may have been prepared for the bee sting, but I’m not prepared for Marshall to completely invade my personal space by wrapping his arms around me and give me a tight sweaty hug. Kissing, making out—that might not catch me by surprise too much, but hugging … “Please be around if or when I ever almost die, Izzy.”

“There’s so much wrong with that statement, I’m not even going to respond.” My voice is muffled against his skin, but I make an effort to glance around and see if anyone is watching. Marshall doesn’t seem to take this getting-in-trouble-for-getting-frisky-with-a-resident issue seriously. “You’re pretty sneaky about all this accidental touching.”

He releases me and steps back. “What do you mean?”

“Almost kissing me, what, twice now? And at least thirteen incidents of skin-to-skin touching, beginning with the unnecessary blindfold, but usually it’s carefully inserted into our current conversation and very relevant, so … well done, Marsh. You have a gift.” I flash him a grin and wait for him to look flustered or backpedal and make up excuses.

He returns the smile and continues walking toward our building. “Oh … I guess I should have said, ‘What do you mean by accidental?’ ” He leans in, the tip of his nose brushing against the side of my face, causing a shiver to run up my spine. “I assure you that if I get into your personal space, it’s completely intentional.”

My mouth falls open, but I have no words to counter with.

There’s an exuberant bounce to his step, especially for someone who just ran a six-minute-twenty-second mile. “I feel totally high right now. Let’s go find some more victims to rescue. Maybe someone OD’d on beer in one of the frat houses last night—wanna check?”

I roll my eyes. “Why is it that
I’m
labeled the weird one?”

The amusement falls from his face and his expression turns serious. “I guess I didn’t realize that you did, you know, like
real
doctor stuff.”

“What did you think I did?” I shake my head. People are so strange sometimes.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Like diagnostic equations or answering fancy questions?”

I laugh. “Fancy questions?”

“Genius-people questions.” He holds the door open to the dorm, letting me in first. “So you’ve been in charge of patients and actual treatment? Can you do anything crazy, like take out an appendix?”

“I’m a surgical intern, so yeah. Appendectomies are typically one of the first solo surgeries doctors perform.”

His mouth falls open. “You’ve done it alone?”

“If by alone you mean with half a dozen nurses, a couple of anesthesiologists, and a resident and an attending watching over my shoulder, then yes.”

“Damn,” he mumbles under his breath. “I almost forgot … I have something for you to look at in my room.”

I charge up the stairs ahead of him. “Is this your way of getting me alone for some more intentional touching? Because if it is, I think we should shower first, don’t you?”

“I love how you act like it doesn’t rattle you. And no, that’s not exactly what I had in mind. Especially after being labeled unprofessional the other night by my co-workers.”

Does that mean he’s not going to almost kiss me again? Or actually kiss me?
Is it really against the RA rules? Maybe I need to get hold of his employee handbook.

I do my best to ignore the tiny nudge of disappointment that wells up inside me. I really need to make more friends. Meet some different guys. Then I’ll be able to shift my thoughts elsewhere.

I refuse to enter Marshall’s room until both of us have showered and changed. By the time I’m approaching his door again, pulling my wet hair into a bun, he’s got his cell phone pressed to his ear. But he nods for me to come in, and after I do, he closes the door almost all the way, then reaches for it again, swinging it halfway open. Hmm … concerned about his professionalism again?

“Did you tell anyone?” he says to whomever he’s on the phone with. “Not even your teacher?”

He wraps up his conversation in under a minute and sets his phone down on the desk beside where I’m standing. “My littlest little sister, Allie. She’s having trouble with some kids at school.”

“Hold old is she?” I ask.

“Eight. And she’s terrible about standing up for herself. It sucks.” He shakes his head. “I forgot to call her back last night. I feel like an ass.”

I open my mouth to ask another question, but I’m interrupted by Marshall’s phone playing a Selena Gomez song. I glance at the name. I can’t help myself.

Peppercorn
.

Marshall swipes it up and sighs before he answers, holding up one finger, instructing me to wait. “Hey, P … Yeah, I know. I just talked to her.… What do you want me to do?” He leans over his desk and jots down an email address. “I already know what Dad will say.” He laughs. “Don’t forget, if all else fails, kick ’em in the nuts.”

He hangs up again and powers up his laptop. “I’m sorry, Izzy. Do you have class?”

“Not until eleven.” I walk over to the bed and plop down on the end.

“I just need to send an email to Allie’s teacher,” he says. “It’ll take two seconds. Allie’s afraid to tell my parents. My dad still lives by the motto ‘Stand up to bullies,’ and that doesn’t fly in today’s school system. And my mom goes nuts because someone’s bothering her baby, you know?”

“I’ve dealt with my share of bullies,” I admit, thinking about my early years in foster care. It was every kid for himself or herself. The ultimate exercise in survival of the fittest—attention from the adults in our lives being the most sought-after prize.

“Was that another one of your sisters who called?” I ask. I still can’t get over the fact that he has four siblings.

Marshall keeps his back to me, typing his email. “Yeah, that’s my second-littlest sister, Renee.”

“Why does your phone call her Peppercorn?”

He turns around to face me and laughs. “I can’t tell you that. You’ll think it’s mean.”

“Come on,” I plead. “I’m not exactly Miss Ethical over here, so spill.”

He goes back to his email but continues talking. “Me and my older brother, Jesse, gave her a peppercorn when she was five and told her it was chocolate. She ate it.”

I snatch a pillow from the bed and throw it at the back of his head. “You’re right, that’s so mean. And you must not be sorry or you wouldn’t have kept up with the nickname.”

He shrugs, hits Send on his email, and then stands up. “She likes the name. Eight years later and she’s still incredibly proud of the fact that she didn’t shed a tear. She’s the opposite of Allie. Grits her teeth and doesn’t let anyone see that she’s upset.”

I retrieve the thrown pillow and arrange it neatly on the bed again. “So what’s the deal with these bullies? She’s not a super-genius, is she? Because I know all about that kind of bullying.” That’s the reason my parents went with home-schooling until I was allowed to start college.

And this is the type of small talk I’m supposed to be making, right? Asking for information rather than learning it through observation.

He shakes his head but seems to hesitate, like he can’t decide if he wants to explain but finally does. “Allie walks kind of weird, trips a lot. Her foot turns in.”

“Internal tibial torsion or increased femoral anteversion?”

Marshall scratches his head, his forehead wrinkling. “No idea. Should I know that?”

“To what degree is she turning inward?” I hold my hand up and turn my fingers toward my chest to demonstrate. His face is still blank, which makes me laugh. “Never mind. Have they put her in a brace or suggested any surgeries?”

“No.” He seems pleased with himself that he’s able to answer one question at least.

“It’s increased femoral anteversion. The anteversion manifests because of the way the femur is attached to the hip socket. Her femur is slightly twisted.” I tap my right thigh. “The only way to correct it is to surgically remove the entire leg and reattach it—”

Marshall lifts his hands to stop me. “See? This is why I hesitated to explain. That sounds barbaric.”

“Which is why no orthopedic surgeon would perform that surgery unless, maybe, the anteversion was so severe the patient couldn’t walk.”