Free Point of Balance by J.G. Jurado Page B

receded and I had made everyone’s life around me a misery.
    Although anxiety was now back in the driver’s seat.
    â€œI’m off to my consulting room to prepare my rounds. I’m running really late.”
    â€œDoctor, wait. We need to talk.” She rooted around under the counter and placed between us the folder with the surgery schedule in it for the next few days.
    I tilted toward her and did a double take when I saw the nameSandra had underlined. A name I did not need to raise too many questions.
    â€œIt’s to do with R. Wade. We have his medical records and billing details. His file is all in order, except for his Social Security number. I ran a check on it and got an error message. And the phone number they gave us always goes to voice mail.”
    Small wonder nobody answered. R. Wade, male, born August 4, 1961, in Des Moines, Iowa, did not exist. The Secret Service had provided the phone and Social Security number. The operating theater was booked up for the whole of Friday morning, and the other one on that floor had a software review lined up which would never take place. No more than three people in the whole building knew the patient’s identity: the hospital manager, my boss and me. I had sweated blood over that, in a place where there are no secrets. But that was nothing compared to the fun and games we would have in the next forty-eight hours.
    At all costs we had to avoid anyone knowing who would be operated on there. Because if one single person found out, she would eventually tell her husband, who would blab to his best buddy, who would tell his wife and tweet it . . . The operation could be canceled or rescheduled, which would mean curtains for Julia.
    â€œSure, they must have gotten a digit wrong,” I said, trying to make light of it. “Fill in the admission date with the one you’ve got, and we’ll change it later.”
    â€œBut, doctor, this is very irregular. And if the HMO gets to hear of it . . .”
    â€œBelieve me, Sandra, this patient does not have cash-flow problems.”
    She looked at me, surprised, but said nothing. We were suddenly aware of how close we were to each other and I backed off. She clutched at her hair, embarrassed, and backed off, too.
    â€œI’m afraid I have to get this straight, doctor. You’ve been on this case from the start, haven’t you? Couldn’t you—”
    I didn’t have the patience or the energy to deal with this situation properly.
    â€œWell, if it’s so important, take it up with Meyer—the hospital manager. He was the one who recommended him, damn it!”
    She turned around, discomforted. SpookyDave was back.
    I ran off and locked myself in my consulting room, and felt bad that I had treated her that way, but I needed to be alone for a few minutes to relax.
    I collapsed into my chair. That sort of overreaction would not help to keep the Patient’s identity secret. The morning couldn’t have gotten off to a worse start, and it would get miles worse yet.

9
    I couldn’t skulk in my cave for too long. I had to go see my patients. I wasn’t down to be with the residents that day—thank God for small mercies—but I couldn’t shirk the rounds. I had already reached a decision: I would seek out a cell phone and wangle a way to call the one person in the world who could help me.
    The problem was whether she’d be up for it.
    At about ten thirty, an hour later than usual, I had mustered enough presence of mind to emerge. At noon I had an unavoidable appointment, so I couldn’t delay matters another minute.
    I began with Mr. Melanson, a retired lawyer on his fifth wife. His aneurysm must have been because of her, a blonde whose body ought to have scored on the Richter scale. If being hot were against the law, that woman would have had a SWAT team on her tail constantly. For now, a pair of residents, an attendant and another