Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Susan did not see it. “Actually, just the opposite. If we isolate something direct and physical, we’ll give it to you skull-crackers to fix.”

Remington worked the gurney controls and tugged the blankets to get Neal onto his side and positioned for a lumbar puncture. “Nanorobots, huh? Sounds like sci-fi. Do they really work?”

Susan could not answer that question yet. “We’ll find out, won’t we?” She carefully unwrapped her bright orange parcel, keeping the contents sterile. “They come from the same company that made Nate, and I’m suitably impressed with him.” She appreciated Remington’s assistance. “Thanks for your help. I was wondering how to get a catatonic into the proper position.”

Remington kept moving Neal. “I just assumed you’re going through the spine, since you’re alone. You’re not injecting straight into the ventricles or anything.”

Susan gave Remington a withering look. “Don’t they always send a first-year psychiatry resident to drill a hole through the skull and access central brain areas?”

“Lumbar puncture it is.” Remington continued to joke. “You have nanorobots. I thought maybe you had personal lasers or something.”

“We’re not injecting tiny Nates. Something this small consists only of the most basic components. Think of them as the robot equivalent of a virus. You can only program in a single, easy function, like assessing the brain milieu.”

“Milieu,” Remington repeated. “Meeeee-leeeee-uh. What a great word.” He lifted one of Neal’s arms, and it remained in position, floating a few inches above the body. “Hey, look at this. Classic waxy inflexibility. I’ve read about it but never actually seen it.”

Susan could not help staring as well. Before the significant effectiveness of schizophrenic medications, such sights had probably seemed commonplace to psychiatry residents. “No playing with the patient’s disabilities,” Susan chided. “It’s undignified.”

“For him? Or me?” Dutifully, Remington tucked in the arm. He wheeled the patient over to Susan, placing the gurney bed perfectly for the light and position of the tools.

Susan suddenly realized how much that small act enhanced her task. In the past, she had always adjusted the light to the patient, which required either a sterile handle or her ungloving and regloving. Also, she tended to carry the tools to the work site, which sometimes placed them in awkward positions around and on the patient. Naturally, such things would be second nature to a surgeon, but Susan appreciated Remington nonetheless. “Thanks. This is going to be the easiest one yet.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you want to do it?”

A light flashed in Remington’s eyes. Clearly, he enjoyed working with his hands. The medical students destined to become surgeons usually did volunteer for procedures first.

Abruptly, Susan wished she had not asked. Remington got to perform such things all the time, while she rarely did. While he was, therefore, less likely to make a mistake, she needed the practice more than he did.

Remington started toward her, then stopped himself. Apparently, he read her hesitation as easily as she had his eagerness. “Nah. I’d rather backseat drive.”

I think I love him. Susan tried not to smile too broadly. “Seriously, don’t hesitate to make suggestions. You have a lot more experience.”

Remington studied her features, as if to determine whether she meant her words. Many a man had lost his beloved only by following her directions to the letter. I don’t need anything for my birthday this year, darling, so don’t waste your money. Or, Tell me the God’s honest truth; do I look fat in this? “Fine. But, remember. If you slap me, you’ll have to resterilize.”

To Susan’s surprise, Remington did know a couple of tricks that made the process safer and more productive, logical things one could learn only from peers or experience. Though swifter than any of her previous procedures, this one also went more smoothly. She supposed having no family members looking over her shoulder helped, and the stillness of the patient added to the ease of it; but she liked to think having Remington around had something to do with it as well. Other than his one snap judgment prior to Orientation, he had displayed nothing but common sense. He demonstrated competence in his own field, without bragging, and could support her in hers without competing or worrying about who acquired more professionalism or success. Slow down, Susan, she reminded herself. We’ve only had one date.

Susan bundled up the supplies. “Now, all I have to do is hand the patient back to his orderly, and I’m finished here.”

It occurred to Susan they could make up for last night’s date immediately and not have to wait for Monday. Neither of them could stay out late, but they could at least grab a meal together before resting up for the next day’s call. Then, she remembered she still had Monterey to deal with, and the whole thing came crashing down. A neurosurgery resident courting a psychiatry resident who is also working on an important research project. She shook her head. We’re doomed.

It was as if Remington had read her mind. “I’d walk you to your public transportation, but I still have a few postsurgicals to watch. How’s Monterey?”

Susan wheeled Neal to the door, opened it, and pushed him out into the hallway. The orderly jumped to his feet. “Finished?”

“He’s all yours.” Susan stepped back into the procedure room with Remington. “Still asleep when I came up here. I have to go back and check on her.”

“I’m curious to know what happened. Text me when you know something, and I’ll try to run into you Sunday for the longer version.” Without allowing Susan to reply, he caught her into an embrace and kissed her fully on the mouth.

Stunned for an instant, Susan quickly found herself kissing him back, eagerly. She wrapped her arms around him. He felt solid, muscular, safe. She liked the feel of him, the slight but distinct aroma of him, and the taste of his lips.

As swiftly as he had started, Remington withdrew and headed for the door. Susan watched him leave in silence, enjoying the view of his slim body, even in scrubs.

Susan hurried to Monterey’s room, only to find the bed empty. She hesitated, uncertain what to think. The girl rarely left her room, and then usually only at someone’s request. Susan turned around to look elsewhere and bumped into an older nurse, named Jasmine, at the door. “Where’s Monterey?”

The nurse put an index finger to her lips in a plea for silence. She grabbed Susan’s arm and walked her quietly to the common room. Three boys played a spirited game of Sorry! at one of the tables. The remainder of the furniture held mostly female patients watching an animated movie on the well-protected screen. Monterey sprawled in a plush chair. Sharicka lounged on her lap, her gaze locked on the screen, a thumb in her mouth.

Jasmine gestured Susan to the charting room, and the R-1 followed. A pair of nurses sat chatting at the farther end of the room, and Nevaeh worked on a palm-pross. Otherwise, no one occupied the room. “They’ve been like that for the last hour and a half,” Jasmine explained.

“Monterey came out of her room all by herself to watch the film. Sharicka guided her to the chair, holding her hand and jabbering on about how wonderful it is to see her walking around. Sharicka told Monterey you’re the best doctor ever and they’re both lucky to have you. Then, she told Monterey to promise to work really hard to go home and she would do the same.”

Susan wished she could share Jasmine’s excitement but managed only a wan smile. She could not help wondering what Sharicka was up to.