Pool_1

in. "Fading?" You couldn't see her lips as that question was pointedly asserted. But the eyes, they spoke. He read them. They said to ignore the fool, she'd handle it. Do the kid. And that's what he did as she revived the phone and relayed that the child presently being put back together had been hit by the governor's car - a total fabrication. The other party's back pedaling was hilarious. "Slik, Southie. He'll find out, though," Macaluso drooled around his root beer barrel. "So sue me," she laughed hanging on to the anesthesiologist's shoulder. The night passed quickly. Macaluso didn't linger to the thanksgivings of shocked families. Such effusive gratitude is self directed. They were really saying thank you for affirmation of their desperate and hysterical assumption that the children were now once again intact, all as before. Magic. No end harm. Risk Management - lawyers - would have you out there destroying families with immediate comprehensive absolute worst case prospects, possibility stripped of optimism. It's better to dodge families than tread on hope. Hope heals. As bloody floors were mopped, as intensivists were taking notes from anesthesiologists and resetting monitors and reorganizing the spaghetti of arterial, venous, central and crash lines, as the orchestration of beeping sensors changed pitch and tempo to announce battery units kicking in for transport, and as eyelids suddenly lost the support which came from urgency - he left. He didn't revel in the rush that succeeding in emergency delivers. He had just about enough time to hustle through morning rounds and catch a bite of breakfast in a quick pass through the cafeteria before beginning this next new long day of elective reconstructive surgery. Macaluso wasn't quite sure what it was he had just eaten, some kind of soft bun with red stuff in the center. There was something particularly unappetizing about buns