Free In the Land of Milk and Honey by Jane Jensen Page A

accident, my training would tell me what to do. But I had no idea what might help tremetol poisoning. I wished I’d asked Glen Turner that question.
    â€œCan you get a warm, wet cloth from the bathroom,” I asked Hernandez. I sat on the bed. “Amber? Amber can you hear me?” Ipicked up her left hand—it was damp and chilled—and rubbed it briskly.
    Hernandez brought the cloth. “Should you be that close?” he asked worriedly. “I mean, is she—”
    â€œIt’s not contagious. Not like that.”
At least, I hope not
.
    Amber’s eyelids flickered briefly.
    â€œAmber? Can you stay with me? The ambulance is on its way. Hang in there.”
Please don’t die. You don’t deserve this, and I have to know where you got that milk, and where you sold it.
    From the distance came the blessed sound of sirens.
    â€”
    By the time Hernandez and I reached the hospital, Amber was already in the ER.
    â€œYou gonna wait?” Hernandez asked when it was clear there wouldn’t be news anytime soon.
    â€œYeah, I’ll stay. But you should go home. There’s nothing you can do, and we can’t both fall asleep at our desks tomorrow.”
    â€œIf you say so, boss. Promise you’ll call me if you need me?”
    â€œPinky swear.” I smiled.
    Hernandez gave a jaunty salute and left me to my solitary vigil in the waiting room.
    I texted Ezra to let him know I wouldn’t be home. Then I phoned Glen Turner and told him about Amber’s condition. “I did a quick search of her bag and her truck, but I didn’t find anything like a list of suppliers. I’m going to wait here to see if she wakes up.”
    Glen sounded tired. “If you could, that would be helpful. I’ll be in Philly all night. Text me if her condition changes.”
    â€œWill do.”
    There was nothing else I could do, so I closed my eyes, hoping for a few hours of uncomfortable sleep in the waiting room chair. I must have drifted off, because a voice woke me up.
    â€œDetective?”
    â€œYes?” Blinking awake, I stood up, still half-asleep.
    I swayed, and the doctor, a thirtysomething Indian, steadied me with a hand. “Sorry if I startled you.”
    â€œNo. It’s fine.” I shook my head, trying to dislodge the fuzz that coated my brain. “Amber Kruger?”
    â€œShe’s in ICU but stable for the moment. I’m Dr. Ambati. Can we talk?”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    I checked the time. It was just after four A.M. The doctor led me out of the waiting room and into a corridor. Poking his head in a small examining room to verify it was empty, he gestured me inside. He half sat, his hip on the exam table, and clasped his hands in his lap. There was a frown of concern on his otherwise smooth face. “I heard they have this tremetol poisoning in Philadelphia right now as well. And the CDC is working on this?”
    â€œYes. We believe Amber is connected with the Philadelphia outbreak. It’s vital that I speak with her.”
    The doctor nodded. “She isn’t conscious yet. But I’m hoping in the next few hours . . . Her blood work shows severe metabolicacidosis, certainly enough to kill her. But I spoke to the CDC, and they confirmed a treatment of intravenous bicarbonate. That should reduce the acid in her blood that’s caused by the tremetol and, hopefully, enable her to recover. I suspect it will take a few days or even weeks for it to pass through her system though. And from what I’ve read, she may have permanent weakness in some of her muscles.”
    â€œSo there is a cure for this?” It was hard to believe. I’d begun to think of tremetol like strychnine—a one-way pass to certain death.
    â€œYes, it’s pretty straightforward. We need to counteract the acid in the patient’s blood using an IV solution until the body has flushed the toxin enough to rebalance itself.