Disclaimers: I don't own ER, Kerry Weaver, Henry, or any other characters there of. Etc… I don't own Vioxx or Merck, and take no stand on the current bit going on with them, just see them as a potential plot device.

Susan hadn't been kidding about the ER heating up. They were flooded with patients to a degree that Kerry felt guilt over finishing her orange, and the climate control system had ceased to function, again. It was at least eighty degrees, but probably closer to eighty five, there was barely room to breathe, and the combination of the two meant that tempers were on fire as well.

"Dr. Weaver," great, she knew that voice, Morris. At least Ross had been vaguely competent, and Malucci had cared about his patients, but Archie Morris lacked either of those qualities. If only Pratt had taken the job as chief resident, "what are you doing here?"

"Saving your ass from the looks of things," Neela said as Weaver took several unclaimed charts from the rack. They might actually clear the board for the first time since Morris had started managing it.

"Hey," he grunted indignantly.

"Now, now children!" Pratt chided them sarcastically.

"Shouldn't you three be trying to make a dent in the patient load? Before the patients overflow into the ambulance bay would be nice," she left them there to go deal with Mr. Dropped My Goldfish Down the Garbage Disposal While I Was Emptying Its Bowl and Stuck My Arm Down There to Fish (pardon the pun) It Out and Cut My Finger On One of the Blades While My Hand Was Down There, By the Way, My Nephew Was Devastated That the Fish Died Anyhow Williams. Also soon to be known as Mr. Held the Firework in My Hand On the Fourth of July Williams, but she didn't know that yet, and would not be on shift that day to see it.

"Hi Mr. Williams, I'm Dr. Weaver, I understand you hurt your hand? Do you have any other complaints?"

"No."

"Okay. I'm just going to look you over quickly to be sure," no matter how foolish the patient, make sure they think they know you give a damn, "alright?"

"Fine," blood pressure, heart rate. Everything within a normal range.

"Everything sounds good. May I see your hand now please?" he extended it, she snapped on rubber gloves and examined it. Didn't even need sutures. She gave him a Band-Aid, told him to keep it clean. No wound check necessary.

The next patient came in on a gurney and clearly wasn't going to make it. A couple went skydiving for their 65th wedding anniversary. The eighty three year old wife fainted just after they jumped out of the plane, before she could activate her parachute. Her heart gave out just as they got her into the trauma. Husband said not to bother. Time of death. I'm very sorry Mr. Donaldson, and on to the next patient.

Janice What Happens if I Shove Dried Fava Beans Up My Nose Worterbuch was polite enough, though her father was a real pain in the ass, directing the anger he felt toward his daughter for her silly little stunt at the medical staff. It was all she could do not to hit Mr. Took Viagra But My Wife Had a Headache, Are You SURE I'm Not Going To Die? Bullman in that head with her crutch when he grabbed her ass on his way out. Yes, the ER was busy, and the population of Chicago was doing its best to drive her insane.

"Dr. Weaver, we've got a stabbing pulling up."

Mad dash for the ambulance bay. Paramedics, "What's the bullet," absorb. Information. Patient, "You're at County General. I'm Dr. Weaver..." Mad dash for the trauma room. What was up with the… Couldn't get a good breath. Odd. Not good. Ignore. Back to work. Ouch. Focus. Patient. Call the blood bank. Call the OR.

"Are you alright, Dr. Weaver?" Abby asked across the trauma table, noticing the chief of staff seemed a bit pale, almost (and very uncharacteristically) shaky, and somewhat diaphoretic.

Kerry ignored the question, too busy with the patient not to be fine. "Chuny, where's the O neg?" the patient, a thirty-something blonde, desperately needed the blood, at least four units, to replace what was lost at the scene of the accident.

"Blood bank's taking their time."

"Well tell them to hurry the hell up, patient hasn't got all day," Kerry snapped at the nurse, "we'll have to auto transfuse for now," there wasn't much blood in the thoraseal, but it was more than nothing, which is what it seemed like they were getting from the blood bank. The pain in Kerry's chest intensified and shot through her arm and up to her jaw. "Get Lewis or Kovac. I…" she stripped off her gloves, grabbed her crutch and left the trauma room.

That was weird. Beyond weird. Both the intern and the nurse noticed that Weaver seemed off and had presumed that she was coming down with the flu, or had eaten something that disagreed with her stomach. Neither knew she was battling to stay upright, that a backache had evolved into shooting pains through her arm and up to her jaw, and it felt like a snake was starting to constrict her chest if either did though, they'd have had her on a gurney. "What the hell was that?"

"Maybe lunch decided to come back up?"

"Yeah, maybe."

Kerry didn't bother to turn on the lights as she stumbled the lunge, just quietly, carefully walked over to the couch and lowered herself onto it. She swung her legs up onto it and shifted into a half reclined position with her shoulders and neck against the arm rest, leaned her head back a bit, and focused on ignoring the boa constrictor tightening itself around her chest, and the pain in her back, and her arm, and that periodically shot up into her neck and jaw.

Just breathe she ordered herself. She closed her eyes and tried to think of anyplace better than where she was and anything more pleasant than the pain she was feeling. The clinical, logical part of her that should have been screaming at her to get up and get out of the lounge and discreetly have someone, preferably Kovac or Susan, check her over and maybe run a strip on the EKG had been gagged and restrained by the stubborn career woman who was 'going to finish her shift if it killed her, damn it,' (which the clinician managed to mumble around the gag, it just might), the patients' advocate who had to do something to atone for needing to step out of a trauma, the single mother who didn't have time not to not be okay because there was Henry to take care of, and the boss from hell who had to set an example.

The pain continued to intensify. She knew at that point that no amount of willpower or denial would make it go away, resolve the situation. She thought about getting up, getting help, but the effort required was too great. The figurative boa constrictor grew tighter, and she almost wondered why the pressure wasn't cracking her ribs.

"Dr. Weaver?" she hadn't noticed Abby enter the lounge.

She tried to force on a professional mask out of habit, fully aware of how ridiculous it was to do so just then. "Did the patient make it?"

"Dubenko's got her," Abby paused, "Dr. Weaver… Kerry, should you be on right now?"

"Susan still here?"

"Fighting with Kayson."

"Patient's a forty two year old female, radiating chest pains, diaphoretic, shortness of breath, what's the differential?"

"Depends," why was Weaver quizzing her? Playing games almost, "Sounds like it could be a myocardial infarction though. With the right history."

"Thought so," shitshitshitshitshitshitshitholyfuckshit…

A friend of Kerry's boa constrictor (or was it a python), one with arms and hands, broke a branch off of a nearby tree and hit Abby in the head with it. Oh my. Actually, oh my didn't cover it. Didn't even scratch the surface. Certain strings of profanity might. Only might.

"Are you um-"

"Just get Susan, please."