Pool_2

"Breach of contract?" Osten was incredulous. "Yeah. The contracts included wording that practitioners would abide by AmeriMed standards of practice, subject to unpublished notice. In this reading, that meant lowered standards whispered up somebody's ass." She then found an appropriate stream of expletives for the mood. Was it true that there was yet another staph epidemic over at Bethdale General Hospital? Was it the fifth in three years? How many dead this time? Somebody thought four but the buzz from the periphery asserted six as two went uncounted. The fifth and sixth died in other hospitals shortly after transfer out, something Bethdale did regularly to control their morbidity statistics. Conversation turned to old philosophical arguments and from there on to individual moments of inner growth and self realization. But Macaluso, still tangled in Sumner's icy blast, remained detached, drifting as general remembrances were being shared and dissected. He heard barely heard any of it, mere echoes until his hand was physically shaken by Larry. "Yoo hoo. Mac. Yo. Hey!" Osten jabbed him, "What's in there? Share it." "Nah. Just a, a, ah...." Mac was grasping for a verbal connection to his inner darkness. "Loss. We aren't who we were. Loss has no tense. It spans past and future - always, killing in both directions. It.. it.. uh.. Haven't we all died?" He was looking at Frank. His dark eyes bore in as that sentinel cigar drooped. Osten's eyes flitted between the two of them. Christ! A connection was imminent. He held outward two up- reaching arms with fingers spread, a gesture of spiritual sanctity, which brought complete silence as impending revelation was palpable. Time and space melted. Two man faced each other joined by souls. Place ceased to exist and faded into detachment.