Free Day Four by Sarah Lotz

waiting for you to come and see my boss for two hours now!’
    At a loss, he took a step back from her. ‘I—’
    ‘The suspected stroke, doc,’ Bin said.
    ‘Calm down,’ Martha said, stepping between Jesse and the woman. ‘The doctor will come when he’s ready.’
    ‘When he’s ready? Are you kidding me?’
    There would be a world of kak if Bin was wrong about the patient being intoxicated. They weren’t set up to deal with a major cerebral event – a distress signal for off-ship support would usually be sent for anything that serious – but he wasn’t about to share that information. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll come now.’
    ‘Well . . . good,’ the woman said, swiping her hair away from her face. Striking rather than pretty – not dissimilar in looks to Farouka. Don’t go there .
    He turned to Martha and Bin. ‘Can you deal with the other matter?’
    Bin nodded.
    ‘Can you give me the patient’s details Ms . . .?’
    ‘Maddie. My name’s Maddie.’ She glared at Bin. ‘That nurse has got all her details.’
    Martha mouthed ‘sorry’ at him as he grabbed his bag and followed Maddie out of the medical centre. She strode ahead and steamed up the stairs, forcing him to run to catch up with her. He kept meaning to use the gym on the ship, but hadn’t yet bothered. Now that he was off the pethidine diet, he was running to fat; he could feel the waistband of his ridiculous white trousers biting into his gut. If only Farouka could see me now. She’d be back like a shot. He wondered what she was doing this evening. Laughing it up in Kalk Bay, maybe. A party with friends. Her friends, who used to be their friends.
    The faint sound of a cheer echoed through the ship.
    ‘Happy New Year,’ he muttered.
    Maddie paused at the top of the third flight and looked over her shoulder. ‘Is it?’ She waited for him to puff his way up to her.
    ‘Not really, no. It’s been a hell of a night. How old is the patient?’
    ‘Celine tells everyone she’s sixty-five, but her passport says she’s ten years older.’ She gave him a fleeting smile.
    ‘And any history of illness? Strokes, heart attack, anything like that?’
    ‘No. She has bad hips, so she tends to use a wheelchair to get around. She can walk, but not far.’
    ‘Drinking, smoking?’
    ‘She likes a drink.’
    Maddie bounded up the next flight, and he followed her down the corridor towards one of the VIP suites. She unlocked the door and impatiently waved him inside.
    He was greeted by two elderly women, one skinny, one obese (Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, he thought uncharitably) who were sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching empty whiskey tumblers. Another woman – who had to be the patient – sat in a wheelchair next to the television, her eyes closed.
    ‘Is she okay?’ Maddie asked the women anxiously.
    ‘She seems fine,’ Aunt Spiker said in a crisp British voice. He put her at seventy, skin browned from an outdoorsy life. ‘She was sluggish when you first left, but she’s talking now.’
    ‘Oh my, is she talking,’ the other woman said – American, about the same age. Kind eyes, the flushed face of the hypertensive. ‘She’s been saying some really screwy things.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘For one, she said that she wasn’t sure if it would work.’
    ‘If what would work?’
    ‘It. That’s all she said.’
    ‘Celine?’ Maddie said. ‘The doctor is here.’
    ‘Hello, Celine,’ Jesse said. ‘I’m going to examine you, make sure you’re all shipshape.’
    Celine made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. He extracted his penlight, and examined her irises. Both normal. Next, he reached into his bag for his sphyg and attached the cuff to her upper arm. ‘I’m just going to take your blood pressure, Celine.’
    ‘You don’t need to talk to me like I’m retarded, doc.’
    ‘Celine! You’re talking,’ Maddie breathed.
    Celine chuckled. ‘Why wouldn’t I be talking?’
    ‘You’ve been . . .