Free Comes a Time for Burning by Steven F. Havill

allowed. He glanced up at Deaton, eyes twinkling. “In point of fact, young man, if you were several months pregnant, I’d be of considerably more use.”
    “I ain’t that.”
    “Well, thank God,” Hardy chuckled. “But I feel some inflammation here, some swelling, more than there should be at this stage. Surgery in September, you say?” Thomas nodded. “Then we most certainly have a little something going on here.” He shut his eyes as Thomas had done, and let his fingers roam for a moment. “The silver was used here as well?”
    “Yes.”
    “Huh. Silver. I hadn’t heard of that.” He straightened and held out a hand toward Bertha, who instantly passed him a clean towel. He wiped his hands thoughtfully and handed the towel back without so much as a glance her way. “What turned you away from grafting, if I might ask? Shierson has had considerable luck at our own
alma mater
.”
    “The gravity of the situation, for one thing,” Thomas replied. “Time was of the essence.”
    “Ah.” Hardy looked up at the patient. “How do you describe the pain, Mr. Deaton?”
    “Well, it hurts like hell sometimes.”
    “Sharp stabbing pain? Blunt, aching pain? A deep, burning itch? Be specific, man.”
    Deaton looked first at Thomas as if he wanted permission to speak, then back at Hardy. “Feels like somebody’s holdin’ a white hot iron poker to my leg. But deep inside.”
    “Ah. How does it bear weight?”
    “Fair to middlin’.”
    “And what does that mean?”
    “Well, I can walk on it all right. I mean, normally, it don’t hurt none.”
    “But there is some discomfort, obviously. What makes it hurt at its worst?”
    Deaton thought for a moment. “Seems like when I twist some, maybe carryin’ a load. Like I pick up a saddle and turn…why, hurts all to hell.”
    “May I humbly suggest that you don’t do that, then?” Hardy said.
    “Amen,” Thomas added, motioning to Bertha. “This is what we’re going to try. I want ice for the inflammation, four times a day, fifteen minutes each session. Without fail. Follow the ice with soothing heat—not so much as to redden the skin, but enough to sooth out the chill from the ice.”
    “I ain’t got the time…”
    Thomas held up a hand to interrupt Deaton. “You
do
have the time, Howard. You do. Or to put a finer point on it, you will
make
time. Consider it part of your job. I’ll
pay
you to do it.”
    “But I got things to tend to.”
    “Indeed you do. Your leg, for one. I can’t afford to lose you, sir. Perhaps you recall the discomfort from your previous convalescence?” Deaton’s jaw clamped. “You don’t want to go through that again, I’m sure. And I can’t have you lolling about in bed all day for weeks at a time. Things to do, as you say. So let’s try the easy route first. Ice and heat upon first rising, then noon, at supper, and just before you retire. Without fail. You might even try a mild liniment, such as you use on the horses for sore muscles.”
    “And the rest of the time, favor it,” Hardy added. “It wouldn’t hurt to go back to the cane that you no doubt used earlier.”
    “Don’t need no cane.”
    “Welllll…” and Hardy drew the word out for full effect, “yes, my good man, you do. Think how elegant you’ll look. The ladies will swoon.” Thomas noted with satisfaction how thoroughly at ease the physician appeared, hands thrust in the pockets of his tweed woolen trousers, completely at home though he been under the clinic’s roof for less than an hour.

Chapter Eight
    They left Howard Deaton to his first round of therapy with Bertha Auerbach, and Thomas escorted Hardy through the rest of the first floor of the clinic.
    “You favor a sort of temperature therapy, I see,” Hardy said at one point as he studied the small operating room on the north side of the building that Thomas had reserved for dissection and post-mortems. “I find that interesting.”
    “It seems natural to me. Cold tends to relieve