Free Stress Test by Richard L. Mabry

doorway.
    “Come on in,” Matt said. He sized up his visitor: probably mid-twenties, Asian features, a definite familiarity to his face. Matt had the sense he should know the man, but the name floated outside his reach. His visitor wore scrubs, but that could mean he was anything from a medical student to an OR orderly to a doctor. See if he introduces himself .
    He did. “Dr. Newman, I’m Hank Truong. I’m the one who brought your pager to you in the ICU. But you were pretty out of it.” Hank leaned on the back of the chair at Matt’s bedside, but didn’t sit down. “Actually I’m the one who saw you when the EMTs brought you to the ER.”
    It clicked then. “Oh, right . Thanks for getting me to the neurosurgeon. You probably saved my life.”
    “Just doing my job. But I’m glad you made it.”
    Matt had it figured out by now. “So you’re a second-year resident, doing your rotation in the Parkland ER as Pit Boss.”
    “Yes. I see you’ve picked up the slang for the resident in charge in the ER. They tell me that duty is pretty much the same as getting a battlefield commission in the service, and I can’t disagree. You see a little of everything, and you have to make some tough decisions, often in a hurry.”
    “Well, I appreciate your coming by,” Matt said. “I hope I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
    “I . . . I understand you’re about to be discharged,” Hank said. “So I wanted to make sure you’re doing okay.”
    Even if the chairman didn’t seem to care about his situation, Matt was pleased to find that this resident did. “Medically, I’m fine. Legally? That’s another story.”
    Hank stuck out his hand. “Well, we’re all hoping you’ll get that straight soon. The residents are looking forward to your joining the faculty and staffing us here.”
    Matt shook the offered hand. “Thanks.”
    Halfway to the door, Hank seemed to reach a decision and turned back. “Let me ask you something. This morning I had a patient come in with an infected gash on his lower leg, several days old—maybe a week or so. Of course, it’s too late to suture it, so I cleaned it up real well, gave him a tetanus shot, and started him on an antibiotic. But I’ve read about doing secondary closures on wounds that long after the injury. What’s your opinion on that?”
    “I haven’t tried it, myself,” he said. Something clicked in Matt’s brain. Could it be? A gash on the lower leg, over a week old. “Describe this guy for me.”
    If Hank was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. Then again, when a staff doctor asked a resident a question, the resident’s response was to answer, not wonder why. And Dr. Newman was a staff doctor—sort of. “He had a high-pitched voice,” Hank said. “Jittery guy. Short, sort of sharp-faced. Late thirties. Hispanic, I think. I don’t recall his name, though.”
    “I’m betting the name and all the other information he gave was false. And I’d guess he paid cash.”
    Hank frowned. “Uh, I don’t know. Do you want me to check?”
    Would it do any good? If nothing else, it might back up his story. “Sure. Please do.”
    “Where can I call you with the information?” Hank asked.
    Good question. Maybe jail? “Tell you what. I’ll call you in a day or so. Thanks.”
    Hank left, undoubtedly to pull the ER record before it could get filed and—if the Parkland system was anything like what Matt had experienced at other hospitals—possibly lost.
    “Ready to get out of here?” Ken Gordon stood in the doorway of Matt’s room. His rumpled scrubs and unshaven face told Matt the neurosurgeon had been up all night.
    “Not sure,” Matt replied. “You have a busy night?”
    Gordon eased into the chair at Matt’s bedside and finger-combed his hair. “Kid—actually, early twenties, but they’re all kids to me—riding his motorcycle down North Central Expressway about one a.m. Weaving in and out of traffic, doing about ninety, the police estimate, when