Free Doing Harm by Kelly Parsons

conference room.
    I duly recall that I volunteered to be one of the human guinea pigs for this study, so after Dr. Collier formally dismisses us, I shuffle with the rest of the exiting crowd through the doorway and out into the hallway, where I line up behind some of the other residents in front of a folding table on which are placed a series of hypodermic needles, each labeled with a series of apparently random numbers and letters. Two guys wearing white coats and ties—one younger, the other older—stand behind the table.
    Younger Guy looks bleary-eyed and tired. Older Guy, clearly a senior professor, is beaming rather greedily at us in a creepy kind of way.
    A chair sits to one side of the table. As each subject sits down in the chair and rolls up their sleeve, they give their names to Younger Guy, who matches the name to a printed list, selects one of the hypodermic needles, then administers a shot.
    Luis and GG fall in line behind me in front of the table.
    “Is Mr. Bernard better today?” I ask Luis hopefully.
    “No,” he replies. “I’m afraid he’s worse. He threw up this morning, and his urine output dropped again overnight. He really looks like shit, Steve.”
    “Creatinine?”
    “It’s 4.5.”
    “Shit. That’s up from 3.1 yesterday.”
    “Yeah.”
    I’ve reached the front of the line. I give my name, sit down, and dutifully roll up my sleeve. Younger Guy nods, checks his list, and chooses a syringe labeled 10032. He vigorously rubs my shoulder with an alcohol swab. It’s cool, and my skin tingles.
    “Renal ultrasound?”
    “Normal.”
    “Drain output— Ouch! Son of a bitch. What is that stuff?”
    “We don’t know,” Younger Guy says, withdrawing the needle from my shoulder and applying a Band-Aid.
    “What?”
    “What my colleague means to say,” Older Guy offers, smiling broadly and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back, “is that you may be getting the placebo, or you may be getting the active drug. We don’t know which. You’re part of a double-blind, randomized Phase II study.”
    “And the active drug is…”
    “A melatonin derivative. It doesn’t have a name yet. Very exciting stuff. Works to modify the body’s response to sleep deprivation and disrupted sleep cycles. We think it helps allow people to function more effectively on less sleep. Sleep-deprived young people like you—overworked residents and senior medical students—are the perfect test subjects.”
    “Why not just let us sleep more?”
    He beams at me and rocks back and forth on his feet.
    “Okay,” I say, rubbing my sore arm as I switch places with Luis. “So why can’t we just take a pill?”
    “Bioavailability issues,” Younger Guy replies, selecting a syringe marked 10033. “We can only administer it IM or IV. For now, it’s IM. We’re working on the oral formulation.”
    “And why did I agree to be part of this study again?”
    “Probably because we’re paying you a lot of money.”
    “Fair enough.” I turn back to my junior resident. “So. Luis. Drain output?”
    “Zilch.” Luis doesn’t bat an eye as the researcher jabs the needle into his shoulder and injects the contents of the syringe into his beefy deltoid muscle. “I don’t think he’s leaking urine from the reconstruction.”
    “Is he dry?”
    “Maybe. It’s tough to tell. Intravascularly, he’s down. But he’s net positive.”
    “Shit. Okay, so his acute renal failure is worsening. Why? We’ve ruled out most of the surgical causes. What do you think’s going on? I need some answers.” At this rate, Mr. Bernard’s going to need dialysis soon.
    Luis screws up his face as he rises from the chair. “I honestly don’t know. Should we get renal on board?”
    “Yeah. Good idea. Get a renal consult first thing this morning.”
    Luis jots down a notation on his worksheet.
    “For you, 10034, ” Younger Guy says. I watch glumly as GG sits down and receives her shot without protest,