Then his pager goes off.
The peace shatters. The shoulders go back up. He slams the cup down.
"Rounds. Now. And hide that thing before Mama sees it, or she’ll charge you rent."
We are standing in Bay 2. The patient, Mrs. Rosa, has a bright red, angry rash on her forearm that is baffling the Dermatology Chief, Dave.
“It looks like contact dermatitis,” Dave says, adjusting his glasses. “But she hasn't changed soaps. We’ve ruled out latex. I’m thinking… rare tropical fungus?”
Lucas sighs, rubbing his temples. “Dave, Mrs. Rosa lives in New Jersey. Unless she’s been wrestling poison dart frogs in Newark, it’s not tropical.”
I lean forward. I sniff the air. I smell… chemicals. Specifically, the acrid scent of cheap dye masquerading as luxury.
My eyes land on Mrs. Rosa's handbag, sitting on the bedside table. It is a bright orange Birkin.
Or rather, it ispretendingto be a Birkin.
“It’s the bag,” I announce.
Lucas turns to me. “The bag?”
“Mrs. Rosa,” I say gently. “That is a lovely bag. May I ask where you acquired it?”
“My nephew sent it to me!” Mrs. Rosa beams. “From Italy!”
“Ah,” I nod. “Canal Street Italy. Or perhaps eBay Italy.”
“York,” Lucas warns. “Don't insult the patient’s accessories.”
“I’m not insulting it, I’m diagnosing it,” I say. I pull on a glove and pick up the bag. I examine the stitching. “Uneven saddle stitch. And the leather… it smells like gasoline and sadness.”
I turn to Dave.
“It’s ‘Faux-Leather Rejection Syndrome,’” I declare. “This isn't Hermes leather, Dave. It’s pleather treated with a formaldehyde-based dye to mimic the orange hue. Mrs. Rosa carries it on her forearm. The heat transfers the toxins. Hence, the rash.”
Dave stares at me. “Is that… in the textbooks?”
“It’s inVogue, Dave. September Issue, 2018. There was a whole article on toxic knock-offs.”
I turn to Mrs. Rosa.
“I’m prescribing a steroid cream,” I tell her. “And I am prescribing that you burn this bag. It is a biological weapon.”
“But it has the logo!” Mrs. Rosa protests.
“The logo is crooked, darling,” I say gently. “And you deserve better. I’ll have my mother send you a catalogue. She has a closet full of the real thing she hasn't looked at since 1999.”
Lucas stares at me. He looks at the rash. He looks at the bag.
“Formaldehyde dye?” Lucas asks.
“Common in the counterfeit market,” I shrug. “It’s a scourge on the industry.”
Lucas shakes his head. He writes on the chart.Contact Dermatitis. Cause: Fashion Crime.
“Good catch, York,” Lucas mutters. “Remind me never to buy you a gift without a certificate of authenticity.”
“Oh, I would know, Chief,” I wink. “I would know immediately.”
