Luka adjusted his coat. It just didn't fit him right any more. Much too loose around the shoulders. But a 30 pound weight loss in 4 months would do that. Weight that he could ill afford to lose. He still hadn't fully gained back everything he'd lost in Africa. Pretty soon, he thought, he was going to look like a kid playing dress up in his dad's doctor-coat.
Triage was packed, as always. He still wasn't doing any trauma. And he'd stopped asking Kerry about it. He was working, he knew he should be happy with that. And after nearly a year, he wasn't sure he could do trauma anymore. Would he even remember how to run a code? What drugs and tests to order? No, he was happy with what he had; 24 hours a week, 3 8's, helping people who, with few exceptions, had nowhere else to go. Not an unsatisfying sort of life at all. He hadn't died from the pneumonia. He had some time left. Susan loved him. Life was good.
Luka took a chart from the rack, initialed the board, went into curtain area 2. "Mrs. Blake? I'm Dr. Kovač. What seems to be the trouble today?"
"I've had the most horrible indigestion, doctor ..."
Back to the rack for another chart. Then maybe he'd get lunch. Avoid losing another pound today. Carter was there. "Luka, would you grab the 16 year old in sutures?"
"That was the MVA, wasn't it? Sounds like trauma to me, Carter."
"He's fine. Just needs some sutures and a wrist splint. I think you can handle it. His mom's out in chairs, she's been nagging us to get him out of here, and we've got an MI rolling in any minute."
"Sure... I've got it."
The patient was sitting on the bed waiting for him. "Hi, Ronnie, I'm Dr. Kovač. I'll just get you stitched up and splinted, and you'll be on your way."
"Sure. Just do it." Ronnie had a laceration on his forehead and another on his left hand that needed sutures.
"I'm just going to numb you up a little bit, then a few stitches in each of these cuts, ok?"
"Whatever."
"Sixteen, hmmm? Been driving long?" asked Luka lightly.
"A few months. I'm almost 17."
"You're lucky. Could've been a lot worse. A few cuts, a sprained wrist."
"Yeah. Real lucky."
Luka began to suture the hand lac. He was puzzled. He was trying to make conversation, but Ronnie didn't seem to care. "Play sports, Ronnie?"
"Yeah, basketball. Season's over though."
"That works out well. Your wrist should be good as new by the time it starts up again in the fall. If you played baseball, this might slow you up a little."
"Damned airbag!" Ronnie suddenly said.
"Didn't deploy?"
"No ... it did. I thought I'd fixed things ... then I guess I hit the brake ... I wasn't going to, but I did."
"So, this wasn't an accident, maybe?" Luka kept his voice casual, kept suturing.
"She's been screwing around behind my back! Lying to me. We've been together for six months, and I find out yesterday that she's been fucking other guys!"
"So you run your car into a light pole?"
"I love her! She knew that, and she goes and does this shit anyway? What do you care? It was my car, and my life. I didn't hurt anyone else. And what could you know about it anyway?"
Luka had finished the last stitch. "I'm sure I don't know how you must be feeling, Ronnie. You just sit tight for a minute. I need to get some papers, and the nurse will bring you instructions on how to care for your sutures."
He threw his gloves in the trash and returned to the desk. "Jerry, get someone from psych down here to talk to the kid in sutures."
"Psych consult?" asked Carter, back there again. "Why?"
"Wasn't an accident. Suicide attempt, I think. What happened to your MI?"
"Looks like angina. 12 lead looks fine. I'm waiting on some labs."
They went into the lounge. Someone had brought in donuts earlier. Not very healthy, but they were calories. Luka took one, and poured himself some coffee. "God, Carter, are all teenagers that stupid?"
"I was pretty stupid at 16. Weren't you?"
"Probably. But not in that way. Running your car into a lamp post because your girlfriend's been messing around behind your back? I wouldn't have done that."
"Did you even own a car at 16?" Carter asked, pouring his own coffee.
"Well ... no ..." Luka admitted. "You must have owned one. Or several."
"Just one. And no, it wasn't a Bentley. Or a Rolls."
"Probably had a chauffeur though."
"Hell, no. You can't impress the girls with a chauffeur, Luka. It's much more impressive to be trying to cop a feel with one hand while driving with the other."
Luka smiled. It felt good to be smiling. "Is that what you do with Sam?"
"On occasion." Carter smiled back.
"So that's going well? The two of you?"
"It looks promising. But my record on relationships isn't very impressive, so I'm not holding my breath. And I don't think Alex likes me very much."
"What's not to like? Several million dollars ... 50 room mansion ..."
"And I'd send him off to boarding school in Switzerland in a heartbeat."
"I take it this means that you don't like him either?"
"Let's just say that Sam's skills in raising children don't quite match her skills in ... umm ... how to put it delicately ... practicing making them."
"So that's what's keeping you from going back to Kisangani then? Sam's bedroom skills?"
"That's one of the reasons. There are others." Carter finished his coffee and started for the door.
"Like me, for example?" Luka said quietly.
"Don't flatter yourself." Carter grinned at him and disappeared through the door.
Luka finished his own snack. He knew he was right. Carter wouldn't leave now. Not until he was safely dead and buried. Which shouldn't delay Carter very long.
Back out in the hall he saw DeRaad opening the door into the suture room. What could a 16 year old possibly know about life, he thought. Or love. Or death. Or pain. There were things worth dying over, but not that.
He took another chart. Six month old with fever. A few more hours of work, a few more lives to save ... or at least make a little more comfortable. Then home to dinner with Susan and bed. Things were getting better there. Slowly but surely. He could tolerate her head on his shoulder, her arm around him. And she sometimes let him touch her, please her. She seemed to understand how much he needed to do it; that piling more new guilt on top of all the old ones wasn't making things any better for him. He needed to be able to give her pleasure.
Life was good. Life. Was good. For today, anyway.
"Mrs. Lee? I'm Dr. Kovac. How long has he had a fever?"
