Free Miracles in the ER by Robert D. Lesslie Page A

complaints were vague and ever-changing. Her answers to my direct questions were evasive, confused. There was no apparent reason for her being in the ER, except that beneath this façade, Stephanie knew she needed help. She just didn’t know how to ask for it.
    “How did this happen?” As part of my exam, I was checking her thyroid gland and anterior neck. Lori was right. Why would she be wearing a turtlenecked sweater when it was ninety degrees outside? I had rolled it down and saw the bruises. They were clearly in the shape of fingers encircling her throat and were of different stages of resolution. This had been going on for a while.
    “What are you talking about?” Stephanie’s hands flew to her neck and she pulled the sweater up to her chin.
    “These bruises look like someone has choked you, Mrs. Evans. Is that how it happened?”
    “I…I don’t know what you mean.”
    Her eyes darted around the room, and then found mine. Her face softened and her lips parted, trembling. Maybe…
    She turned her head and stared at the floor.
    “We have a big dog, and she must have…She likes to jump up on people and she…A couple of days ago she—”
    “Mrs. Evans, these bruises were made by someone’s fingers.”
    My hand was on her collar again and she moved away, twisting on the stretcher and placing both hands around her neck.
    “It was my dog.”
    “Mrs. Evans—”
    “It was my dog.”
    The window slammed shut and my opportunity was gone. What could I do? What more could I say?
    I had been in this situation more than once. We had patients who we were sure were being abused, and when we offered our help, it was rejected. Denial and fear are powerful emotions.
    Many times we called the police anyway, concerned for our patients’ very lives. But they were powerless to intervene unless the victim complained. When met by silence, the officers would shake their heads, give them a card with their name and phone number should they change their minds, and walk out of the department. They knew, as we did, that this wouldn’t go away. It wouldn’t stop. Several episodes of choking were clear evidence of the anger and intent of Stephanie’s husband. It was only a matter of time.
    “Mrs. Evans.”
    Silence.
    “Any luck?” Amy Connors looked over the counter at me as I came up beside Lori. “Was she willing to talk about it?” The nurse had told her what was going on and that we might need to make a call to the police.
    “She won’t talk about it.” I dropped the clipboard on the countertop. “I tried, but she just won’t talk. But you’re right, Lori. That woman is in trouble. She needs some help.”
    “I just don’t get it,” Amy muttered. “If that was me— Wait a minute! That explains it!”
    She opened one of the drawers beneath the counter and flipped through a large folder of ER records from the past thirty days.
    “Here it is.” She slammed the drawer shut and held up the copy of an info sheet. “Stephanie Evans was in the ER a couple of weeks ago. You guys weren’t here that day, and she saw Dr. Given. She said she had fallen in the bathroom and her X-rays showed two broken ribs. I remember Dr. Given sayin’ things didn’t add up, with what she was sayin’ and what he was seein’. But she stuck to her story, and he sent her home.”
    Lori and I looked at each other.
    “I’m going to talk with her again.” She was standing behind Amy and turned in the direction of room 4. “I’m going to tell her about Angie.”
    Fifteen long minutes later, Lori Davidson walked back up to the nurses’ station. Her eyes were reddened and her face flushed.
    “Amy, would you call the police. We need them in room 4.”
    From this day forward…

The Locusts
    “Hey, Dave,” I called out to the tall, trim, sixty-year-old police officer. “What brings you to the ER this morning?”
    Dave Hawkins was walking through the ambulance entrance. He looked over, smiled, and gave me a mock salute. Beside him walked