Micah quickly retrieved a clean towel and fished the tools of his trade from the water. He wrapped the cloth around the wet instruments and pushed the bundle into his bag.
“What’s the situation?” he asked, joining the nurse, who stood over a man caked in blood, soot, and all manner of filth.
“They just brought him in. They found him buried in the rubble. He suffered a severe blow to the head. It crushed the back of his skull. There was a great deal of blood loss. His breathing is shallow, and his pulse very weak.” She met Micah’s gaze. “He’s not responding to any stimulus.”
Micah pried open one eyelid and then the other. The pupils were fixed and dilated. He took a pencil from his pocket and pressed it against the base of the man’s index fingernail. There was no movement, no attempt to fight against his action. Micah did a few additional tests, looking for any kind of response whatsoever, but there was none.
“We can’t help him. Have him moved to the waiting room.”
The waiting room signaled the hopelessness of the man’s condition. It wasn’t a place where patients waited to be seen—it was where they waited to die. In the hours just after the earthquake, Micah had seen men and women lined up side by side with nothing more than the floor beneath them—all in various stages of dying. At least now they had the ability to give the poor soul a blanket to lie on.
He shook his head and gazed out across the large factory floor. Every inch of space was being utilized in some capacity, but it was such an inadequate arrangement.
“You look barely able to stand, Fisher,” a gruff voice said behind him.
Micah turned to find one of the older surgeons. He had been called out of retirement to help treat the vast number of wounded.
“Better just prop me up against a wall and bring the patients to me, then,” Micah replied with a grin. He rubbed his face, frowning at the thick growth of stubble. He’d given up the idea of growing a beard when his mother asked if it was possible for him to be clean-shaven for Easter. Had that only been a week ago last Sunday?
“Son, you’ll do no one any good if you can’t think clearly. I’m ordering you out of here. Don’t make me get someone to remove you. Go home, or go wherever you can, so long as it’s away from here. Take a hot bath and sleep for as long as you need and come back rested. After that, you can work another week without decent rest or meals.”
Micah nodded. He knew the older man was right, but he hated to walk away from such urgent need. “It’s just so hard to leave.”
The gruff old surgeon touched Micah’s shoulder. “Son, I know exactly how you feel, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that rest and proper nourishment are vital to clear thinking. Many of these souls are going to die, which is despairing, but you’d feel a great degree worse if you were the cause of it. Now go.”
“I will. I need to let my folks know I’m alive, anyway.” Micah suppressed a yawn. “I’ll be back here or elsewhere as soon as I have some sleep.”
Walking from the factory, Micah felt his legs grow heavier with each step. He wished he could hail a cab and be driven to his parents’ house, but what few services were available were charging outrageous prices, and he’d given his last few dollars to a woman trying to buy milk for her children.
Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, Micah barely registered the destruction around him. The blackened frames, mangled steel, and piles of stone and concrete melded together in strange formations. Ghostly reminders of the once glorious city.
Just ahead, a team of men and women were working to load some of the debris into the back of a large freight wagon.
“Halt! You there, halt!”
Micah yawned and blinked at the sight of an armed soldier, who leveled his rifle at Micah. “Is there a problem, son?” The soldier looked to be hardly more than a boy.
“You are to report for duty helping with cleanup. Every able-bodied man is commanded to report immediately,” the private replied.
“Son, I’m a doctor. I just came from working at the hospital and various other locations. I’ve been working nonstop since the earthquake, and I’m going home for some sleep.”
The boy looked momentarily confused, and the rifle lowered slightly. Micah took that as a sign the soldier understood and started again for home.
“I said halt, or I’ll shoot!”
Micah stopped again and turned to face the young man. “You’d kill a much-needed doctor because he’s tired?”
“I don’t set the orders. You have to report for work.” The boy’s voice cracked and seemed to rise an octave as he added, “Right now.”
Micah didn’t know what to do. There was no way he could help remove debris. He could barely stand. Not only that, but he couldn’t risk hurting his hands digging through the rubble.
“What’s going on here, Private?” another soldier asked as he approached. Turning, Micah could see this man was older, an officer. The young private snapped to attention.
“The young private is only trying to follow orders,” Micah offered. “However, he doesn’t seem to understand that I am a physician. A surgeon. I’ve been working without much rest, and I’m heading home to sleep.” He held up his black bag. “You can look at my medical instruments if you doubt the truth of it.” He glanced down at his bloodstained clothes. “You can also see my attire.”
The officer shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Go get some rest, Doctor.”
Micah nodded. “Thank you.” He resumed his journey.
