Free The Global War on Morris by Steve Israel

have some pretty neat equipment down there!”
    After sending some e-mails to friends in the Department of the Interior, Sully consummated a three-department trade of personnel (including two FDA employees to be named later).
    He had one more item of business.
    He ordered his staff to leave the room, closed and locked the door, and then logged in to his computer.
    YOU ARE ENTERING A RESTRICTED SITE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. PRESS ENTER FOR NICK. PRESS EXIT FOR HOME PAGE.
    Sully entered his NICK authorization codes and his password: ASPIRINMAN .
    The NICK menu said: ENTER A SUBJECT.
    He typed in Victoria D’Amico’s name and social security number. With a satisfied sigh he said, “This should do.”

EMERGENCY ROOM
    THURSDAY, AUGUST 12, 2004
    â€œI s that you, Victoria?” Dr. Kirleski bellowed from his back room. He could hear the rattling of coins and keys in her purse as she plunked it on her desk.
    No. It’s Miss Universe. I’ll be filling in for Victoria today.
    She walked into his office.
    â€œYou’re a bit late, no?”
    â€œI couldn’t get parking in the lot this morning. Is someone having a sale or something?”
    Kirleski gazed out the window. “Someone must be moving in. Phone company, cable company, power company. Anyway, how was it last night?”
    â€œHow was what?”
    He seemed disappointed, his smile fading. “Your date! With the guy Doris and I met at the charity dinner. Doris is dying to know!”
    Victoria’s cold stare informed Dr. Kirleski that Mrs. Kirleski could die without knowing, for all she cared. He withdrew his smile, and said, “Oh. Well then, I’m sorry. Maybe the next one.”
    Sure, the next one. He’s got to be out there. Somewhere.
    Kirleski stood awkwardly, jiggling change in his pants pockets, wrestling with his next words. And when they didn’t come, he shrugged. “Back to work then, I suppose, eh? Would you call Mrs. Johanson first thing? All night she left her usual life-and-death messages. Will you call her, Victoria? Thank you.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œOh, and Victoria? There’s a strange clicking sound on the phones. Call the phone company and see what it is.”
    â€œSure.”
    She looked at the accumulated messages. They might as well have been headlined: WHILE YOU WERE OUT, GOD SMOTE YOUR PATIENTS. There were aches and pains, fevers and flu, inflammation and itching. There were stiff necks, tight chests, swollen glands, and light heads. There were hacking coughs, sore throats, cramps, chills, lumps, and hives. That was about half of the message pile. The other half consisted of administrative maladies. Patients fighting insurance companies; insurance companies fighting patients; and everyone fighting Dr. Kirleski. Payment disputes between HMOs and PPOs. Appointments requested, appointments canceled, appointments rescheduled, referrals sought, referrals made.
    And a half-dozen urgent messages from Mrs. Johanson.
    She thought, Mrs. Johanson with her brain tumors. Always cancer, never a cold. Always near death, never a sniffle. Never in-between.
    Why can’t life be more in-between?
    Not the lush waterfalls hanging in the waiting room. But not “You and Your Prostate” either.
    Not Ricardo, but not Jerry.
    Not Tom Hanks.
    Just . . . someone . . . average.
    At which point, average walked through the door.
    â€œHello, Morris Feldstein!” Victoria greeted Morris.
    â€œHullo, Victoria.” Morris drooped his head and stared at his shoes and wondered what to do with his arms. Morris never knew quite what to do with his arms when someone was asking him a question. They seemed rather useless for conversation, almost annoying. He could lock them behind his back, but that seemed too casual. He considered clasping his hands in front of him, but then he became self-conscious about placing