Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Remington looked at her dazedly as he found himself walking opposite the direction he had intended. “Susan. What are you doing here?”

“Talking to a patient’s family. I presume you’re doing the same.”

Remington caught on immediately. “The alleged four-year-old murderer is a patient of yours.”

Susan nodded forcefully. “And there’s no ‘alleged’ to it. She’s fascinated by what she did, and it’s not her first attempt.”

Remington’s brows shot up. “A four-year-old serial killer?”

The thought chilled Susan to her marrow. “Attempted serial killer. So far, she’s only completed one murder, though it’s not for lack of trying.” Susan realized the imaginative array of Sharicka’s attempts did not bode well for the future: drowning, stabbing, strangulation, and the choking hazard added to a child’s drink. When Sharicka discovered guns, there would be no telling what might happen.

“I’m glad you told me,” Remington said, sounding more perplexed than pleased. “It changes my feelings about the family, which will probably affect my approach when I tell them Rylan will likely make a full recovery.”

“Oh, thank God.” Susan spoke before she had a chance to consider her words. “I don’t think they could handle any more bad news.”

Remington studied Susan as if seeing her for the first time. “You’re positive the four-year-old really did this . . . and of her own volition. That she’s not under the influence of . . .”

Susan understood his hesitation and doubt. It had become predictable. “Her father is not manipulating her into taking the blame, nor into taking these actions. She’s a very sick little girl.”

Remington sighed. “I have to admit I would have expected deeper cuts had an adult inflicted them, even with something as blunt as a butter knife.” He glanced past Susan, and she appreciated that he accepted her authority without further questioning. If she said a four-year-old caused the trauma, he would no longer cast suspicion on the father. “I’d love to give you a full report, but why repeat myself? Let’s let the worried parents off the hook.”

Susan nodded, then gestured to indicate Remington should go first. He did so, and she followed him back into the waiting room.

Dr. Elliot Anson had returned to his pacing; but, the instant Remington entered the doorway, he grabbed a seat beside his wife. “How’s Rylan?” Both parents turned agonized gazes onto the neurosurgery resident. Seeing their raw and honest expressions, Susan wondered how anyone could suspect them of harming any of their children.

Remington crouched in front of the parents. “Most of his wounds were superficial, but one managed to penetrate the spine. It tore a hole in the dura, the membrane covering the spinal cord, and caused what we call a traumatic herniation.”

Susan held her breath. She did not know enough about neurosurgery to guess the long-term effects. Herniations of the brain nearly always proved fatal. She did not know if there was any connection between spinal cord and brain herniation. Then she remembered Remington had told her Rylan would probably make a full recovery, and her concern slowly dissipated. Do neurosurgeons mean “full recovery” the same way nonsurgeons do?

Gently, Remington extracted Susan’s palm-pross from the mother’s hand and tapped in a connection to a diagram of the spinal cord. “Right here.” He pointed to the thoracic area of the back. “The dura got torn, which allowed the spinal cord to slip out of its canal. That caused him to have what we call a Brown-Sequard phenomenon, usually caused by damage to one side of the spinal cord. Rylan had weakness on the right side of his body and lost pain and temperature sensation on the left.”

The parents only stared, listening intently. They had become accustomed to bad news when it involved their children.

Remington continued to explain. “In the OR, we were able to restore the herniated spinal cord to its correct position, and we patched the dural defect. He’s in Recovery now, and neurological tests are essentially normal. He still has slight weakness of the muscles on the right, but he did just get out of surgery.” Remington rose, smiling. “We expect a full recovery.”

The parents seemed stunned. “Full?” Lucianne Anson rose, clutching her hands together at the level of her chin. “As in . . . normal?”

Remington’s grin broadened. He looked tired, yet his face still managed to light up in a way that made his features seem perfect to Susan. “As in normal. Exactly how he was before the incident, aside from some scars.” He glanced over at Susan. “At least physically. I think counseling, though, is probably in order.”

The Doctors Anson caught each other and practically danced around the room with glee. “Counseling, yes,” the father boomed. “We’ll all need it.” He hugged Lucianne tighter. “Our son is going to be all right.”

Susan breathed a sigh of relief. The situation was so ugly, it seemed weird to find joy in it. Yet things could have turned out even worse.

The Ansons disengaged. Lucianne lurched over to catch Remington into an embrace. For an instant, he stiffened in surprise, then caught her in his arms.

“Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you so much, Doctor.”

Remington glanced at Susan, clearly uncertain how to handle his sudden predicament. “Don’t thank me, ma’am. I only made the diagnosis and assisted the surgery. My attending, Dr. Arlington, is the one who saved your son’s neurological system.”

Elliot Anson gave Remington a careful pat on the back, while his wife still clung. “We’ll thank him, too, when we can. We appreciate what all of you have done for Rylan . . . and for us.”

Remington waited until the mother had released him before speaking again. “The Recovery Room is through the door, to the right, and down the hallway. Do you have any questions about the surgery?”

“Can we see him now?” the father asked.

Remington pointed. “When you get to Recovery, the nurses will take you to him. They should be able to answer all your basic questions, and they can call Dr. Arlington.” He added firmly, “I’m finished for the day.”

“Thank you.” The father walked past them and out the door.

The mother grasped and squeezed Remington’s hand one more time as she passed. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” Remington said to her retreating back.

The instant they disappeared, he caught Susan into an embrace. “So, about that day on the town? You get any sleep?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” Susan said, still eager to spend the rest of the day with Remington. She would understand if he canceled their date again, but she hoped he would not.

“Great!” he said with clear enthusiasm. “I caught a shower in the on-call quarters, but if I smell too much like the OR, I can take another one.”

Susan had her nose pressed against his scrubs. While he did carry the chemical odor of anesthesia and cleansers, they did not bother her. “You smell fine. Just get some street clothes on, and we’re gone. Every extra moment we stay is just one more chance for someone to ask us a question or get us caught up with another patient.”

Remington gave her a look that said everything. “I don’t care if my own grandmother needs a subarachnoid evacuation. Once I’m past those doors, I’m not coming back till tomorrow.”

Susan laughed. “I’m not waiting until we’re outside.” Using one finger, she made a show of muting her Vox. “See you at the main exit in ten minutes.”

“Or less,” Remington promised, dashing off into surgeons’ territory.

Susan went in the opposite direction, determined to let nothing stop her from reaching the front exit unmolested.