Free Blood Lies by Daniel Kalla

don’t need to worry,” I said. “You dodged a bullet—granted, a big and pointy one—but you’re going home healthy. I suspect you’ll never look at those ‘harmless’ rave drugs the same way.”
    “I’m not going to look at them at all!” Lara spat. Her eyes moistened and her voice cracked. “I’m going to warn my friends, too. No one tells us that this stuff can kill you.”
    “You’ll make a good spokesperson.”
    She flung her arms around me and gave me a quick hug. Embarrassed, she turned away without making eye contact. “I’m sorry about your brother, Dr. Dafoe,” she mumbled. “But thanks for saving me.” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried out of the room.
    I tallied the week’s ER scorecard in my head: one win, one loss. Batting five hundred might be a good stat in baseball, but it wasn’t very impressive in an Emergency Department. Still, Lara’s visit lifted my spirits after Enrique’s demise.
    I felt even better when I stepped out of the Trauma Room and bumped into Alex heading the other way. She stood close enough that the floral scent of her shampoo drifted to me. She pointed to the collar of my scrubs. “What the hell, Ben?”
    “Neck stabbing.”
    “Oh.” She nodded. For a fellow ER physician, that was explanation enough.
    “You got time for a coffee?”
    “Depends.” She grinned. “You got a new shirt?”
    “You’re so damn superficial.” I chuckled. “But yeah, I’ll go slip into something less conspicuous. I think I’ve got another one in my locker with only urine and vomit stains.”
    Alex rolled her eyes. “You’re all class, Benjamin Dafoe.”
    I grabbed a T-shirt from my locker and slipped it on. Heading out of the hospital in the steady rain, I regretted not taking my jacket. The late afternoon was even colder than the morning. I was shivering by the time we stepped into the coffee shop across the street and grabbed a booth.
    Sitting with coffees in front of us, I asked, “How’s kindergarten working out for Talie?”
    Alex’s eyes lit up. “Much better than preschool!”
    “How so?”
    “She’s called a truce with Ella, her archenemy from preschool.”
    “I didn’t know you can have an archenemy in preschool.”
    “Me neither.” Alex laughed. “But those two were oil and water. Until a couple of weeks ago when they discovered a mutual love of those tiny Polly Pocket dolls. Now they’re the bestest of friends.”
    “Ah, if only Disney and Mattel ran the world…”
    “I think they already do,” she groaned.
    I had a sip of my coffee. “And Marcus? What’s he up to?”
    At the mention of her husband, the joy drained from her face. “He’ll be tied up in New York for a while longer,” she said with an evasive shrug.
    “That blood bank business of his is really taking off.”
    “I guess,” she said distantly. “Seems like all new parents want to store their children’s umbilical cord blood.”
    I knew that umbilical cord blood contains stem cells that, if stored at birth, can be used later to repopulate the bone marrow with healthy cells in the event a bone marrow transplant is ever required. It represented another form of insurance for parents, and I understood the demand for it. If I ever had a child, I would probably want the same.
    “So let’s hear about your trauma patient,” Alex said, clearly trying to divert the conversation away from the topic of her husband.
    I told Alex about Enrique Martinez’s stabbing. She said all the right things—the same things I would have said, but not necessarily believed, if our roles had been reversed. Still, I felt better for having vented to her.
    She reached out and squeezed my hand supportively. “So, how are you?”
    I looked away and bought some time with a long sip of coffee. “Okay, thanks. Better, really.”
    “Hmmm.” She let go of my hand. “The cops still don’t have any leads?”
    “I pulled myself or I was pulled—I’m not sure which, actually—from the case. I