THAT FALL
2 - WELCOME TO LONGWOOD

CHAPTER 2: WELCOME TO LONGWOOD

The news that Longwood Mental Health Center would be closed at year’s end mildly bemused orderly Oren Clark. The hospital board was selling the building to a long-term care company and shifting psychiatric services to the new, big-wig funded, mental health wing at Penn Regional General Hospital, or PRGH. The Longwood staff, including Oren, was being evaluated for what management euphemistically termed transfer or release. Transfer would mean taking a position in the new psychiatric center, but old Oren was from the old Longwood, meaning Oren was more likely to be a member of the release group. So it was.

Over his twenty years at Longwood, Oren had never been a target of the numerous mistreatment and abuse investigations, and he regularly received excellent performance reviews. Management, and even Doctor Antoine, who would run the PRGH unit and was supervising the transition, liked Oren. Importantly, as Oren kept stressing in every conversation possible, Oren was an orderly and a licensed nurse who could handle the nurse’s station when needed. But Oren was approaching sixty and management could pay a twenty-year-old less than half of the seventy-six thousand plus benefits they paid Oren. And a twenty-year-old could easy lift a 200-pound patient. Inevitably, Oren would be released. Sounded like they were putting him back in the vast ocean to swim free like some rehabilitated whale and not like they were firing his old ass. At least he wouldn’t be swimming in Longwood shit. So it was.

Until then, Oren planned on taking all overtime offered hoping to pay down his debts and save a little for retirement. Oren wished his ex-wife only the mildest form of incurable cancer while contemporaneously asking Jesus to forgive his vengeful self. He would not be destitute if her lawyer had not been so aggressive. He wondered what sin he had committed to be so cursed. Oren never stole, worked hard, and never cheated on a single test or his wife. He had nursed his sick momma after death had taken his only brother in some stage of that Iraq war. Now what? No mother. No wife. No kids. No money. And, soon, no job. So it was. Maybe it would not have been so bad if his deceased mom had had financial resources of her own or if her Medicare had covered more than basic care. Or if her meds were not a thousand dollars each month out-of-pocket and Oren could not permit his dying mother to not have the best of everything. A few decades of overtime could resolve the whole thing. Regretfully, Oren only had another six or eight weeks at Longwood. So it was.

His mother resisted his help, insisting, “You need not get all these meds for me, Oren Clark. I’m a dying woman. Throwing good money after bad. Nothing right about that.”

“Now, you hush yourself, Momma. I want you to be comfortable. And stop saying your’re dying. Like inviting death to dinner.”

His mother, Francine Goodwin Clark, with her still-sparkling brown eyes beneath her drawn cancer-starved face, stared him down. “Son? Death is sitting at my table, uninvited.”

Momma Francine died on Valentine’s Day at a ripe, old eighty-five, three months and six days. Oren had gotten her a sweet card which, in her morphine state, she never read. Oren could still smell her Ivory soap in the bathroom and her perfume in her bedroom. The Valentine’s card, still propped on the nightstand, reminded him to get things packed up, but he planned to sell the house, contents and all, and make for the Poconos to live out his years until death came to dinner uninvited. So it was.

He calculated his pay for his night of overtime. He sure was earning it. Night shift was usually quiet, with the occasional suicide attempt or overdose popping by for a visit. Very sad a person who would hate life so much that they would want to check out. To violate God’s commandments. You don’t have a say when death comes to dinner. Tonight had been unusually busy with five new patients arriving with hysteria because of the boom-thing. PRGH reported that they, too, were full of what everyone was calling Boom-Patients.

The intake nurse had mistakenly admitted Eleanor Bergstrom as a Boom-Patient, but Oren moved Eleanor to the first floor. Bergstrom was a board member and used Longwood as a spa vacation whenever she felt the need. Three times in less than four months, Eleanor had spent a week or more at Longwood. And she was always a handful. Not taking her prescribed medicine. Not eating her meals. Oren had found her loitering around the pool when she was supposed to be sleeping. Tonight, she sat gripping her designer handbag and demanding Oren’s full attention.

“Young Man. I had an episode. All shaking because of those booms.”

“Yes, Ma’am. And you’re taking what’s prescribed, like the doctor ordered?”

Bergstrom adjusted her purse in her lap and her feet on the wheelchair footrest. “You know I am. But I need something stronger.”

Oren leaned over her and gestured to her gnarled hands. He asked, “What did you do to your finger, there, Missus?”

“This?” She raised her right hand slightly from her lap. “I’m not sure… just a little cut.” She waved him off, adding, “And I would like my regular room, Mister Clark.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” he said, considering she was one of the votes that closed Longwood. He wondered where she would vacation once Longwood was closed. So it was.

The clock read 8:35, and all was quiet. Time was doing that tricky thing it did when you wanted it to move along. Like a kid in last period Math class, watching every tick of the thinnest hand in that big round clock face and waiting for that last bell, Oren felt time slow. On a sunny day playing football at the park with someone you love, the clock would skip hours, going from one to three in the afternoon in a second. Tonight, he would grind his jaw and watch that skinny red ticker mark second after agonizing second, hoping for something to make the time run as it should. When people said, double time, Oren always thought of that slow clock. Double time took double the time each second. Oren thought racing should be called half time. Then the clock took half of what it should. But football had stolen the term half time for something unrelated. So it was.

Leaning as far back in his chair as he could, Oren thought about sneaking outside for a smoke. Where was that nurse? What was her name? Felicia or something like that? Probably caring for the Boom Patients on two. And the security guard, Dave, had taken his dinner break. He wouldn’t be back for another twenty minutes. Doctor Lansing, Longwood’s longtime attending psychiatrist, was catering to the patients on the second floor or snoozing in his office, as he was apt to do. Oren would need to wait to puff his cigar. Tick, tick, tick: 8:45. So it was.

He flipped on the reception room television and leaned to get a clear view of the screen. Recovering as he lost his balance, he adjusted his seat, shuffled the chair to the left and raised the television volume. The ticker: Senator Green wants answers. Russians denying responsibility and accusing the United States. Same pointing-finger shit all day. Some nut from the Southern Poverty Law Center was claiming the booms were a racist move to scare minorities. Considering the five new Caucasian guests and old-white money Bergstrom, a lot of white people were just as frightened. Tragedy and fear don’t know skin color. So it was. According to the geniuses at the Southern Poverty Law Center, he should be shaking in his African American boots. His deep timbered laugh echoed in the empty reception area. He was merely annoyed at all the dramatics. Not having enough money for food was the only thing that scared him. And if it was Revelations, so be it. He would meet his maker and see his Momma again. Oren turned off the television, sighing that it was only 9:09.

The desk phone hummed, and its lights blinked. Oren pressed the speaker button, not worried about privacy since he was the only living thing on this end of the building. “Longwood Mental Health. Oren Clark speaking. How can I assist you?”

The bored voice stated, “Yeah, Clark. This is Nurse Willis over at General. We’re sending a doozy to you via crash cart. Forty-nine-year-old female professional presenting with schizo symptoms. Confirming you have the room?”

Oren nodded to no one, responding, “Yes. She stable?”

“As stable as a schizo gets. We’re overflowing with Boomers and somebody upstairs ordered her transferred.”

“Well, send her up the hill.”

“Will do. Probably get there in about ten o’clock. I’ll fax records. Watch for ’em.”

“Got it. Thanks.” Oren disconnected the call, stood and stretched, placing his hands on the small of his back. On the upside, the clock read 9:13. He frowned, knowing the nurse should have returned to reception by now. What was her name? Felicia? Tricia? What the hell was happening to his old brain? If she wasn’t coming down, and Oren stepped in as night-nurse, he wanted the nurse pay bracket for this evening’s overtime. That was for sure. And where was the security guard, Dave? Oren remembered the serious young man had joined the PRGH security staff in April. Couldn’t recall that nurse’s name he had read on her tag three hours ago, but details of a day six months ago were no problem. So it was.

“You ever been in the service?” Oren asked Dave one night while the two loitered at the reception desk.

“No. Why?” Dave played with the pens in the registration desk cup. He arranged them, putting the blue with the blue, black with black. Then he arranged the registration pages, lining them up in the clipboard.

“You seem the type.”

“A lot of people think that. But no. College to the police academy.” He fiddled with the signs attached to the front of the desk.

Oren tapped the desk with his thick fingers. “How about ball? You would be one hell of a lineman.”

Dave shrugged, saying, “I don’t recall ever playing. Maybe when I was a kid.”

Over the months, Oren was thankful when Dave, strong as a Greek god, would help move patients. And Oren did not mind that Dave spent much of his time visiting patient Josey Nordstrom. Oren would watch Dave stroll the first floor, dally by the pool, pass Josey’s room, back down the hall to the pool, pass Josey’s room again. The titter of Josey’s laughter would inspire Oren to walk by, smile at Dave, and pass with no further comment. Dave would follow quickly, attempting to hide his motives. Oren did not comment since Dave seemed like a nice kid and Josey could use someone stable in her life.

In the three times Longwood had admitted Josey Nordstrom, she never had a visitor. An attractive, twenty-three-year-old diagnosed schizophrenic, Josey regularly tried to take her own life. Problem was, as a state-pay case, Josey was a flat rate to Longwood. Whenever she overstayed her payments, she overstayed her welcome. After her most recent thirty days of drug and cognitive therapy, Doctor Lansing had determined that Josey was stable. Oren correctly disagreed and Josey returned on August 8th at 3 in the morning after slicing her wrists.

She claimed to be a pagan or some witch thing. Longwood would not allow her wax candles, so she had Christmas lights strung about her room, tarot cards spread around the windowsill, and a bunch of occult books on the shelves. If anyone had asked Oren, she wore too much black eyeliner and too little clothing. Never a bra, that one. He had seen strippers wear more than Josey donned. Tattoos of strange symbols and skulls sleeved her left arm. And, no matter how many times policy demanded she remove her jewelry, her pierced nose, eyebrow and lips matched the lines of piercings around her ears. Oren would not proselytize, but he prayed for her soul. So it was.

Oren jumped as the fax machine humming to life echoed in the empty reception area. He pulled the papers from the printing bin and scanned the six pages for pertinent information.

Name: Angie Krigare

Age: 49

Sex: Female

Status: Unmarried. No children.

Weight: 175

Height: 5’ 4”

Employer: Penn State

Profession: Professor

Contact person: None

Complaints: Unconscious for appox two hours last evening. Med trauma occipital. Reason: Unknown. Poss: Faint episode. Nightmares, sleep deprivation. Last meal: Unknown. Nausea. Persistent headache. Sensitivity to light. Vertigo. Additional severe hallucinations.

Notations: Arrival 1445 hours. Psychotic break of three-minute duration; struck a coworker. Recent stressors: unknown. Claimed she had to kill phantoms in her office because they “had her son.” Observed for four hours; no change.

Vitals: Pulse: 22 BPM Blood pressure: 100/40. Taken six times. 100/40 confirmed. Temp: 80.

Drugs: Melatonin

Last menstrual: Unknown

Pregnancy: Unknown; Test not completed

Medical profile: Unknown; patient admits severe night terrors.

Neuro/cog Ex: Performed preliminary vision test. Unable to continue with stand neuro / cog assessment. Patient restrained.

Scans: Patient too violent to test; requested CT and MRI

Prelim Diagnosis: Concussion with schiz; BPD. Eval required. Refer to Longwood; Dr. Lansing.

Administration: IV Saline; 100 mg chlorpromazine, with 110 mg every 4 hrs.

The BPD, brief psychotic disorder, Oren could understand. The vitals he could not. Oren dialed PRGH, surprised to have his call answered in two rings.

“Nurse Fredericks, PRGH Mental Health Ward.”

“Yeah, Fredericks. This is Nurse Clark at Longwood. We’re awaiting arrival of patient, Krigare, Angie. I’m reviewing her records you guys faxed over. Do you have a moment to check a few of these line items?”

“Yes, Nurse Clark. What can I do ya’ for?”

“Vitals listed at 22 BPM. That must be wrong…” Oren frowned. The normal, healthy pulse was 60 BPMs.

“That’s what I have on this end. Huh. That’s weird.”

“Typo?”

Nurse Fredericks hummed as she reviewed on her end, finally saying, “Must be. I can check with the on-call nurse downstairs.”

“Can you? And can you also ask about the BP? I have 100 over 40.”

“What?”

“Check it on your end.”

Nurse Fredericks laughed, “Someone is falling down on the job over there. It’s been a long, weird day with all those Boomers and news and all of that. But, that’s not right for anyone. Wait…” There was a pause. “This says it was checked repeatedly and was 100 over 40.”

Oren responded, “A-hum, that’s what I’m reading. We’ll recheck on this end, but I would like a call. And someone to check on who’s taking vitals over there.”

“Absolutely. Call you back in fifteen.”

“Thanks.” Oren replaced the receiver on the cradle. Now, where was that damn nurse what’s-her-name? Oren buzzed the second floor again, checking his pocket for his stash of tranquilizers. He might need them.

“Washburn, here.” Her tone was frantic.

“Ah… Washburn? You coming back to the desk? We have an arrival pulling up now.”

“Clark. I’m elbows-deep in Boomers. We’re releasing all five in about an hour, but we have lots of crying and crap—and they keep insisting on turning on the television. Which I want them to avoid.”

“Good thinking.”

“So… I can be down in thirty. After I figure out how to disable this tv. Can you cover?”

“Sure, if you note my time card for nursing duties.”

“Absolutely. No one expected this mess tonight. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Oren replaced the receiver on its cradle. He reviewed the patient roster and celebrated his double overtime. The clock was ticking quickly. 9:48 post meridiem. Praise Jesus.

He ambled towards the deceptively inviting entrance and gazed beyond the inner doors through the two-story vestibule across from the reception desk. Through the waiting area was a long hallway leading to the long-stay, television, and the activity rooms. A sparkling grey granite tile flowed throughout. Pleasant forest-themed paintings lined the walls. Oren liked the one of loons flying over a sunrise reflected on a lake.

The corner of the building housed the solarium, filled with mostly dead orchids and ficus since no one worried about the plants anymore. Dying ficus and tufted chairs dotted the long walls. A small table with tile inlay held a Keurig and popular magazines. Except for the dying plants, which reminded Oren of the releasing of employees, Longwood seemed more a spa than a hospital. The facility even had a pool at the end of the first-floor hallway, but it had been closed after a not-so-surprising tragedy. So it was.

Oren regarded his own reflection and a six-foot three-inch, dark-skinned African American man, slightly graying at the temples, stared back at him with yellow-brown eyes his mother called cat’s eyes. He refused piercings and tattoos. He wore slightly worn scrubs, and the recently purchased stethoscope hung around his neck tangled in a lanyard with his name tag and key cards. He would need to buff the scuff on his left boot. He ran his hand over his five-o’clock shadow, wondering if he should just let it grow in. Some people said he looked like Forest Whitaker. If he looked like anyone, it was Michael Clarke Duncan. Oren even sounded like Duncan. So it was.

At the base of the hill, beyond the trees lining the property, Oren saw the flash of headlights. Hallelujah, here she comes, he thought, hoping it was patient Krigare and not a surprise. The ambulance parked and the three paramedics removed the gurney from the back. The paramedics wheeled the patient towards the outer doors. They had restrained the patient in a straitjacket. Oren noted additional restraints on the patient’s legs. For that little woman? That explains using the crash cart. The PRGH transport did not have the restraints the ambulance had. Having three paramedics was also unusual where two was typical. This patient must be a firecracker.

The bald paramedic, rivaling Oren’s height and weight, opened the outer door and the other two paramedics wheeled the patient into the vestibule. Oren did not know the blond female paramedic. The paramedic at the patient’s left side was a thin guy that Oren had worked with several times. Tim? Tom? Oren would try to ask or get them to list their names. He wanted to be friendly.

The patient moaned and struggled, twisting against her restraints. All three paramedics were in the vestibule with her; the thinner guy was trying to calm her. Oren was about to open the inner door but hesitated when he saw the patient pull both arms free of the straitjacket and tear the oxygen mask from her own face, snapping the head bands securing it in place. She screamed, and the vestibule exploded into a snowstorm of glass.

Time slowed and Oren watched the female paramedic defend her face from the nipping glass. The vestibule frame groaned and twisted, shaking Oren’s grip on the door handle and pushing him back into the reception area. Tiny glass shards flew around Oren even as he reeled from the blast. The tall paramedic who had been holding the outer door, fell to the ground, a large chunk of metal embedded in the front of his shoulder. The concussion blew the third paramedic, Tim or Tom, through the outer door into the parking area.

As Oren tried to reach the patient, a boom hit, knocking him to his knees. He struggled to stand. The female attendant also fell to her knees, and the gurney struck her head, forcing her into the remaining metal uprights of the vestibule. Oren regained his footing and moved quickly, climbing through the frame of the outer door, reaching the patient, and injecting her with a double dose from his handy syringe. He checked her for lacerations or glass and, replaceing none, knelt to check the female paramedic.

“I’m okay, I think.” She touched her fingertips gently to her face and brushed away the flakes of glass. “Check Tom.” The woman gestured to the thin paramedic on the ground near the parking area as she attempted to extricate herself from under the gurney.

Oren rushed to Tom and gave him a shoulder shake to revive him. Tom opened his eyes, “Hey… Oren.” He shook his head. “What the hell just happened?”

“Are you cut? Are you okay?”

With Oren’s assistance, Tom rested on one elbow. “Yeah… I think.” He sat upright and checked his hands, wiping them down his chest and legs. “I’m not cut or anything.… Where’s Mary? The other paramedic? The blond?”

“She’s okay. I need to check the other guy.” Oren rose and rushed back to the vestibule doors. The big paramedic was sitting next to the frame of the outer door, pulling the metal from his jacket and wiping sprinkles of glass from his clothing. Mary was checking his back and wiping glass from his hair.

The big paramedic winced. “What the hell, right? Must have been that boom. A delayed sound or something.”

Oren said, “I don’t know, man,” as he jiggled the gurney free from the twisted vestibule metal and into reception. Placing his stethoscope into his ears, he checked the patient’s heart rate and respiration. Faint. Slight. Then Oren noticed Josey haunting the waiting area.

He called to her: “Girly? Where’s your friend? Dave?”

Josey stared at the vestibule as if admiring a painting in a museum.

“Josey? Hey, Girly? Where’s Dave?” Oren checked the patient’s chart. It was Krigare. He began to scan her body for shards of glass.

Josey asked, “Dave?”

Oren was losing patience. He snapped, “Yeah, Dave!”

“He’s down by the pool, I think.”

“Well, get him.” Oren reached for the cross around his neck, holding it tightly in his large hands. Release might be better than transfer.

Doctor Lansing emerged from the elevator, moving as fast as his seventy plus years would allow and called out, “What the hell happened, Clark?”

Oren continued to check the patient’s skin and hair for glass. “No idea. They were coming in with her and all the glass of the entry just exploded.”

“Exploded? Must have been that boom sound.” Doctor Lansing leaned over the patient. “This one from PRGH?”

“Yes, sir. Here’s her chart. I reviewed it in fax form about a half hour ago.”

The doctor flipped through the pages, pausing a few times to regard the same sections Oren had noted. He grunted, asking, “Did you call about this unusual BPM?”

“Yes. Confirmed.”

The doctor shook his head, ordering Oren, “Check it.”

Oren placed his fingers on Krigare’s neck and raised his watch to count. He tested the full minute, shaking his head. “Can’t be. 22 per minute.”

The doctor grabbed Krigare’s wrist from Oren’s hand. “It might just be shallow, so you’re missing beats.” He raised his own watch almost to his nose while pressing his stethoscope to her wrist. He listened and frowned. “Damn. I get 22. Maybe only 21.”

Reflexively shivering as a blast of autumn wind whipped through the destroyed doors, Oren pointed to the chart, “Review the BP, Doctor. Same issue.”

Doctor Lansing fought against the breeze to review the pages. “Could be the Thorazine. 100 milligrams is too much for a patient of this weight and height. I would have started with 20 or 30.” He seemed lost in thought. “What did you just give her?”

“A double.” Oren noticed the three paramedics approaching. Mary tossed two blankets over Krigare.

The doctor unperturbed by the cold continued to examine Krigare. He examined her wrists. He examined her eyes, gently opening the lids with two fingers. He felt her ankles and examined her feet. He asked, “Was she being violent?”

“No.” Oren hesitated, then forced himself to state: “She ripped herself out of the straitjacket.”

Doctor Lansing peered over his glasses at Oren. “Nurse Clark, really?”

“I saw it,” the bigger paramedic confirmed. The other two paramedics were nodding in agreement.

The doctor examined the discarded jacket draped over the sedated woman’s shins. He said, “Then the jacket wasn’t secured correctly.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Doc, I know how to secure a psych in a jacket–”

The doctor waved his hand dismissively. “Nevertheless, you didn’t secure it this time.” He met their unified gazes. “Are you telling me this slight of a woman pulled out of a straitjacket? What is she? Fucking Houdini?” He sighed when no one admitted a mistake.

Oren said, “I think you three should go upstairs and have the nurse check you out.”

“I think that’s wise.” Doctor Lansing gestured to the elevator. “Those booms caused quite some damage.” He regarded what had been the vestibule, seeming to enjoy the breeze slapping his face. “We need maintenance to get here earlier today.”

Tom shook his head. “Doc. The doors blew up right before the boom.”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “Can the three of you remove yourselves to the second floor and make sure you don’t have glass in your eyes? Because I’m satisfied that you’re all blind.”

The three shuffled, chastened, towards the elevator doors, gesturing farewells to Oren and chatting about the exploding doors. Mary mentioned being glad to be rid of that one, meaning Krigare. Oren realized he was not so fortunate. He was, however, pleased Doctor Lansing had addressed him as Nurse Clark. And time was flying now. The clock read 10:18. So it was.

“Ah,” the doctor said, taking advantage of a pause in the icy breeze to flip pages of the chart. “PRGH apparently didn’t do much. Just checked vitals. I need a CT and MRI stat.” He flipped pages, and read aloud, “I also need her conscious. What was the dose you administered?”

Oren, attentive, responded, “A double. Ten of haloperidol.”

“Okay… she’ll be awake,” he said, checking the clock over the desk, “in three to four hours and we will resume then. Do the CT and MRI in the meantime.”

“The techs for CT and MRI are not in until six.”

“That’s right…. Okay. We do a full perception exam before her next sedation. And move her to three.” He placed Krigare’s chart at the foot of the gurney.

“To three, Doctor?”

“That’s what I said. You seem perturbed, Nurse Clark.”

“Doctor, she doesn’t seem very dangerous.” Oren did not want to put this sleeping angel on the floor for the very disturbed.

“We don’t want the people on two seeing this patient. They might assume her condition results from the booms. And one is just as inappropriate.”

Oren nodded and said, “Three it is.”

He began to move the gurney towards the elevators when Dave emerged from the hallway, stopped short and regarded the vestibule. Most of the warped metal structure, except for some hinges and one handle, remained. Oren noted the handle he had been holding was across the room under a chair. All the glass was missing from the doors and walls of the vestibule. Dave leaned into the metal beam, almost trying to sniff evidence. The wind whipped his blond hair across his eyes. He regarded the sedated woman on the gurney and said, “I’ll call maintenance.”

“You do that, Guard Johnson.” Doctor Lansing said, looking again through Krigare’s paperwork.

Dave disappeared into the nurse’s station as a state police officer, pushing a sedated man in a wheelchair, emerged from the destroyed vestibule. The patient, wearing an orange jumpsuit and restrained by thick, leather wrist and ankle cuffs, was obviously a prisoner. Big guy. Oren groaned inside. So it was.

The police officer, wearing a black eyepatch and a leg brace, asked, “Can anyone help with this one? I was told to bring him here.” With some effort, the officer pushed the chair over the glass and rubble. He handed Lansing a sheet of paper.

“State?” Doctor Lansing asked.

“Yes, sir. We don’t have facilities at the prison for this kind of thing. Too inconvenient, I guess.”

“Somehow, others’ problems become my problems.”

“Well, Doc, this one’s a bad egg. They have him drugged quiet so you can secure him.”

Doctor Lansing flipped the page over. “This transfer says he’s a schizoid-sociopath. That’s some diagnosis.”

“I wouldn’t know. I just move ’em.” Waving his hand, he said, “Have a good night, Gentlemen,” and disappeared, hobbling into the dark parking lot.

“Clark, get her secured and then come get this one. He won’t wake until next year if these anti-psych dosages in this chart are accurate. Damn prison doctors. Bunch of hacks prescribing for a thoroughbred, not a man. I’ll wait for you. Three will be appropriate for this one, obviously.” Lansing tossed the paperwork onto the sleeping prisoner’s lap.

Dave emerged from the nurse’s station, gesturing to the patient in the wheelchair. “Who’s this one?”

The doctor seemed beyond tired. He said, “Patient from State.”

Dave frowned, saying, “State uses grey jumpsuits—not orange.” Dave reached for the paperwork, but the doctor touched his arm.

“Don’t you think you have your job to do, Mister Johnson?”

“Security is my job. All due respect, Doc.” He retrieved the paperwork from the patient’s lap, scanned the pages and frowned. He lifted the prisoner’s chin and regarded the face. Letting the prisoner’s head drop, he noticeably backed away. “Where’s the guards who brought him in? What did they look like?”

“One state officer. He left. And I didn’t really think it necessary to note his physical features, Officer Johnson.” The doctor pointed at the gaping hole that was the door, noting, “We have bigger issues at the moment.”

Dave looked again at the man in the wheelchair and frowned. He leaned over the sedated women and grunted. Then he returned to the rubble, examining the shards.

The doctor turned to leave and saw Josey lurking in the corner of the waiting area. “Miss Nordstrom?”

Josey blinked. “Yeah, Doc?”

“Do you think you should be in bed?”

“With all this fun going on? No way.”

“You should be sleeping, Miss Nordstrom. Part of your issue, as we have discussed, is a poor schedule. Do you need a sedative?”

“All right, I get it. I’m gone.” She disappeared into the dark down the hall.

Oren pushed the gurney to the elevator and pressed the up button. Arriving on the third floor, Oren could not call it cozy, with its dark brick walls and heavy metal room doors, but it was warmer than the exposed lobby. He tucked Krigare into the bed in room thirty-one. He secured her wrists and ankles tightly to the bedframe, taking no chances. Her vital signs still incredible, he adjusted her hospital gown and took the time to tuck her wisps of curls behind her ears. With a warm cloth, he washed her face and her hands, checking again for glass. She seemed the peaceful angel as he watched her chest rise and fall.

He returned to the first floor, unhappily bearing the cold, and approached the sedated prisoner. He raised the prisoner’s head by lightly tipping the man’s chin. Good, tough face. Tussled, short dirty-blond hair. Five o’clock shadow rivaling Oren’s own. When moving or having to restrain a patient, one needed to know how much force it would require. This guy was over 250 pounds. At least six foot five. Slumped in the wheelchair could make his height deceiving. Oren measured the man’s hands to his own, palm to palm. The guy could bend the tips of his fingers over Oren’s. Oren recalculated. The guy was over six foot six. Maybe 280 pounds. And solid. No fat on him. This was not the patient to leave unrestrained. No, sir. Oren ensured the wrist and ankle restraints were secure. He picked up the paperwork from the man’s lap and shivered. Better to read the chart upstairs where it was warm and where his shrinking testicles would not distract him. So it was.

He replaced the paperwork on the patient’s lap, unlocked the wheelchair stop and spun the chair expertly towards the elevator. Same trip, but this time to room thirty-six. Each windowless room on three had a bed, a nightstand, a chart slot and IV hookup on the wall. Where the first-floor patients enjoyed large, furnished bedrooms, they secured the patients on three in solid brick, four-foot by six-foot cells. The designers must have anticipated that a restrained person would not be walking about or entertaining visitors. Those on three could only meet visitors in the activity room with two orderlies and the treating physician present. Oren could not recall ever hosting a visitor for a patient on three. So it was.

Oren took his time and used a lever method to move the patient safely into the bed. A younger orderly would try to use strength. Oren was wiser. He took his time as he covered the patient with a light blanket. Pausing, he could have sworn the patient’s eyes were open. Just a flash. Maybe the guy was dreaming or something? He retrieved the chart from the foot of the bed and reviewed the dosages of medications. This guy would be out at least another six hours, thank Jesus.

It was 12:30, tick, tock, when Oren settled into the security booth, unwrapped his sandwich and rifled through the prisoner-patient’s record. Not much medical information. His name was Sam Reynolds. Fifty years old. No contact information for family. No vitals listed. Oren would need to take them at next rounds. Diagnosed a schizoid-sociopath meant the bastard would be sweet as pie and manipulative as hell. Always a pleasure. The true sociopaths were friendly and complimentary right before they stuck a syringe into a nurse or used an IV tube to strangle a trusting orderly. So it was.

Oren ordered Krigare’s tests. He called the second floor and confirmed the paramedics were all released with minor scratches and a small puncture to the big one’s jacket. A miracle, praise God. He scanned the television, quickly bored. Some senator cheated on his wife by sending dick-pics to a male family friend. Charming. A measles outbreak in some town in New Jersey. No surprise. And to add to the fun, three booms, no conclusions. Oren figured one of those crazy terrorist groups would have claimed responsibility, but no. It wasn’t earthquakes. It wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t planes breaking the speed of sound. A worldwide mystery.

Just as Oren’s watch alarm buzzed 2 am, the elevator doors slid open, and an exhausted Doctor Lansing emerged. Punctual guy. Oren’s mom would have said, “That boy is lanky.” Oren smiled. Yes, lanky, with a thick head of grey hair and black-rimmed glasses, Lansing did not have to face release or transfer. He would retire.

The doctor tapped on the booth’s window ledge, stating, “Let’s get to this, Clark.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Oren followed the doctor down the third-floor hallway.

“Sorry about this—the late nights and overtime—with the budget cuts and the planned closing, we are terribly short-staffed.”

“Don’t mind the extra cash. And I heard we got a new intern.”

“We don’t need some intern on loan from PRGH. We have needed and still need nurses. Orderlies. Another psychiatrist on staff. That would have been nice. I hate working nights. And maybe they wouldn’t have closed us down if they would have given us the funding so we could have done our job right.”

“Yes, sir. I ordered the MRI and CT for Krigare.”

Lansing was flipping through Krigare’s paperwork. “Is she still out?”

“She should be waking now,” Oren said, carding the coded lock and letting Lansing enter. Oren followed carrying a chair which he positioned at Krigare’s bedside. Angie Krigare was strapped into her bed, awake and wide-eyed.

The doctor accepted Oren’s invitation to sit. “Miss Krigare? I’m Doctor Lansing, the senior psychiatrist here at Longwood. Do you remember what brought you here?”

Krigare tried to raise her head and whispered, “I need… I need some water.”

“Get her some water, Nurse Clark.”

Oren retrieved a pitcher of water, a plastic cup and several loaded syringes from the adjacent observation room. He returned to the room, raised the head of her bed, and helped Krigare drink. She did so, greedily. Oren refilled the cup.

“You don’t remember what brought you here?”

“I… I don’t remember… my son,” she said in a high-pitched, meek voice. Poor little thing.

“What about your son?”

“I remember having a son…” She, again, accepted the cup Oren brought to her lips, gulping the water and demanding more. Oren refilled the cup a third time. She downed the contents and said, “I don’t have a son. That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s a problem, hm? You think you have a son—and the paperwork from the hospital says you thought you had a husband, too. But that’s not correct is it? That’s not reality,” Lansing said.

“I remember, though.”

“Do you have a history of these issues?”

She winced, then said, “It all started with my falling… bumped my head.” She tried to raise her hand to touch the bump, but the restraints restricted her intention. She grimaced, saying, “Fainted, I… I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember how you fell or fainted?” Doctor Lansing asked, making notes on the paper on his lap.

“No. And… my phone has no contacts. Can I have more water?”

Oren poured a fourth cup of water and raised it to her lips. She finished every drop and Oren poured a fifth cup with expectation.

Krigare winced again, stating, “I woke up on my condo floor… I have a bump on my head–”

“Can I examine that?”

She nodded, continuing while the doctor examined the back of her head. “My thumb ring was all in pieces on the floor. I asked my neighbors…. but… they hadn’t experienced anything… and I have nightmares...”

“We have had a few healthy people here tonight who had psychiatric issues after The Boom. Did you experience these delusions after The Boom?”

She frowned and said, “No.” Her deepened as she asked, “Can I have more water?”

Oren was ready and lifted it to her lips. She took the drink in almost one gulp. Oren pursed his lips. Thirsty little thing. The antipsychotics could make a patient parched. Oren would be changing her sheets tonight, that was for sure. So it was.

The doctor continued. “So, you hear the boom and have these delusional ideas?”

“No… before that boom…” She seemed to wander in thought, adding, “I know you’re trying to help, but I need to replace my son.” She pulled at the restraints.

The doctor removed his stethoscope from his pocket. “Let’s see how you are doing, shall we? Do you mind if I take your vital signs?”

“Yes.”

“You mind or yes, I can?”

“Yes, I mind.” Her voice perceptibly changed from a mousey, quiet whimper to hard, commanding and authoritative. Unnerved, Oren almost reached for the cross tucked in his scrub shirt. Instead, he palmed one syringe from his pocket.

The doctor forced a smile. Oren could tell the doctor was beyond tired. Gently, the doctor said, “Well, you want to get better? So, I will need to check out what might be wrong.”

“No.” Her eyes blazed as he approached. “I need to replace my son.”

Doctor Lansing, accustomed patient’s resistance, reached for her arm. Before he could touch her, her restraints seemed to just disconnect—to melt apart. She raised her hand in a stop motion against the doctor, who flew across the room and slammed back flat against the far wall. He remained pinned, his eyes wide, his arms crucified, and his feet dangling. A large crack began to form in the wall, spreading behind the doctor up to the ceiling and down to the floor. The sound of the crumbling bricks hypnotized Oren.

“You are the worst of all of them,” she growled, lowering her hand. The doctor slid down the wall and crumpled to the floor as she whispered, “I just want to replace my son.”

The spell broken, Oren rushed to her side and administered the tranquilizer.

She met his stare as he injected her and said, “It won’t work for long. No matter what you do.”

Oren secured her weakened form back into the restraints. He was sure he had secured them. Had Doctor Lansing loosened them?

Oren rushed to the unconscious doctor. A trickle of blood dripped from the doctor’s lips. Oren lifted the doctor’s wrist to take his pulse and realized that all the bones in his wrist, arm and hand were broken. Oren felt the doctor’s other arm and hand and wrist. All broken. His legs were broken. Hesitantly, Oren reached for the doctor’s jaw. Broken. Oren reached for his cross in his shirt and gripped it tightly. Holy Mother Mary, Dear Jesus, Dear Lord. Oren pressed the emergency call button, hoping someone, even Josey, would help him.