"Go ahead and get dressed, but leave your shirt off," Samuels said a few minutes later as he scribbled his notes. He'd turned his back to allow me a measure of privacy as I pulled on my trousers.

My eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"You need IV saline."

"No I don't."

"Of course you do. Two liters to combat the dehydration. And," he held up his hand before I could protest, "Given that I'm fairly certain your condition is bacterial, not viral – probably Campylobacter - I'll give you a dose IV ciprofloxacin while you're here and then start you on an oral course of Levaquin."

I processed the information as I tugged on my undershirt, looking longingly at my tie and suitcoat. Without cultures, which wouldn't be completed for a few days, the primary reason to suspect a bacterial rather than viral cause was . . . "Then there was blood in—" I began.

Samuels turned back around to face me. "Yes. The cultures will provide confirmation, but I'd like to get you started on treatment straight away." He motioned me back onto the exam table. "Now, lie down before you fall down," he said, not unkindly.

Assuming Samuels was right, my illness was unrelated to the viral infection that had made its way through Portwenn nearly a month ago. That provided a small dose of comfort, although I had no doubt that my fellow citizens would nonetheless accuse me of infecting myself as I'd managed to infect the rest of the village.

Samuels brought over the infusion equipment and searched for a vein in my arm. "This one should do," he said, swabbing the inside of my elbow with antiseptic. I turned my head away in anticipation of the needle, pinching my eyes closed when I felt the stick.

"Damn," I heard Samuels mutter.

When I opened my eyes and glanced over to see what he was doing, I nearly vomited all over myself. Samuels was wiping away blood. He'd clearly missed my vein.

"Sorry 'bout that." He frowned. "Should I get you some Compazine?" he asked, obviously mistaking my nausea as a symptom of my illness rather than my reaction to the fresh blood.

I lay back and took several deep breaths. "No, I'm all right."

Samuels tapped my arm in an attempt to bring my vein to the surface, then grabbed a fresh needle. "Here we go."

"Ow! I exclaimed as I felt the needle again go astray. "For god's sake, what the hell are you doing?" IVs inserted properly weren't all that painful; the failed efforts were starting to hurt, not to mention I'd have a huge hematoma for days.

I tried jerking my arm away and, given my reclined position and weakened state, he easily grabbed onto it and held it in place. "Easy, Martin. The dehydration is causing your veins to disappear."

I turned onto my side toward him and reached for the needle he'd just pulled from his supply cabinet. "Give me the damn needle; I'll do it myself."

He pulled it away from me like a parent holding a toy above a child's head. "Stop it. I'm perfectly capable of starting an IV."

"I've seen no evidence to support that."

"Shut up, Martin. Your kibitzing isn't helpful."

"Neither is your stabbing me repeatedly."

Samuels took that moment to insert the needle once again. Fortunately for both of us, this time his aim was true and, within a few minutes, a bag of saline was flowing into me. In short order, he'd piggybacked the IV cipro. Just dandy.

"You're going to be here for a bit," he said. "Would you like me to send in your girlfriend to keep you company?"

"Louisa? She's not my girlfriend."

Samuels smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Really? She certainly seems . . . quite fond of you."

"She drove me to your surgery," I replied defensively, starting to sit up. "I hardly think that qualifies as adoration."

"She just drove you to the surgery? Looks like a bit more to me."

"I came here for medical treatment, not for advice on how to lead my personal life!"

Samuels stepped over to the exam table and pressed his hand against my chest. "Martin, calm down and lie down." He put the BP cuff around the arm without the IV.

I bristled at the attention. "I am calm. I just don't like your insinuations."

"I wasn't insinuating anything. She's a lovely young woman and I simply thought you and she – oh, never mind." He pulled the stethoscope from his ears. "Your BP is elevated. Try relaxing and taking some deep breaths."

It took another fifteen minutes before he was satisfied that my pressure had come down. "Now," he said, in a somewhat exasperated tone, "would you like to see Miss Glasson or not?"

I considered whether it was worse to leave Louisa with the talkative Mrs. Briggs or to have her hovering over me. "Send her in."

I closed my eyes and allowed the medication to do its work. I'd started to doze off when there was a knock at the door.

"Martin?"

I lifted my head. "Louisa?"

A few seconds later, her face hovered over mine. "How are you feeling?"

Why did people feel the need to ask the question when they already knew the answer? I'd been on the IVs for only a few minutes; my condition clearly hadn't changed. "Tired."

She stared at the IVs. "What are those?"

The last person she'd probably seen with an IV was Peter Cronk in the back of an ambulance. Because he'd been bleeding out, I'd been forced to place the line in his carotid. It had been a harrowing event with a critically ill patient and undoubtedly something she hadn't forgotten.

"Saline and an antibiotic." Normally, I'd launch into a brief explanation but I felt poorly and Louisa probably didn't care about the effects of quinolones on infectious diarrhea. Nor was it a subject I wanted to discuss with her.

"Will you need to go to hospital?"

"No."

She sat down in the small room's only chair. I stared at the one thing I could see in my supine position – the beams of the roof. There were eight across, each probably six inches wide. One of them was of a lighter shade, which meant it had been replaced recently.

"Martin?"

I'm comfortable with silence; Louisa is not.

"Martin!"

"What is it?"

"Can I get you anything?"

"No."

"You should see the children, Martin, so excited about the spring pageant. Hard to believe it's only a week away. Of course, there's so much planning to do what with six classes each having their own performance—"

"Louisa." I kept my gaze on the ceiling.

"Yes, Martin."

"Would you please just . . ." I sighed.

"Yes, Martin?"

"Shut up." Without waiting for a reply, I closed my eyes and tried to fight the waves of nausea that still passed through me.