“C’mon in,” Russ welcomed them through his open door. “Troy, great to spend some time with you.”
“Doc.” Troy looked around as he stepped inside. Children’s art covered one wall. “Good to see you too.”
“Tim, welcome. Troy, you’ve got a good PA on your team.” Russ pointed to his sitting area.
“Doc, I told Troy this was a meet and greet,” Tim said.
“But I don’t sign autographs,” Russ teased as his eyes moved up and down Troy’s body. “Are you tired of doctors yet?”
“What do you think?” Troy asked.
“You don’t care what I think. Eight months is a long time to be dealing with so many severe injuries. You’ve been confined by your body’s weakness and your friends’ desire to keep you safe. Tim advised me you also have a tight grip on who knows what happened. That creates a self-imposed prison too.” Russ maintained an open posture.
Troy’s eyes flexed up and down. “Tim started the ball running and now you, Doc. Both of you have a different point of view than the other docs. Why?”
Russ answered, “At our last meeting, the team discussed this with reference to you and other trauma patients. It’s a matter of perspective, training, and experience—the same things that distinguish operators from each other. For the patient, that creates insecurity and confusion. In response, we’re creating a multidisciplinary team approach for every patient who has two or more systems affected by illness or injury.
“That’s why Tim was appointed to your care. He will meet with your providers as often as necessary for you to receive the best care and receive a unified message. If that means fifty times a day, that’s what happens. And you and I are going to get to know each other. I can read a chart, but I want to know you, and you me. Next Tuesday, I’ll give you your preadmission exam and make sure you’re ready to go on Friday. Before we go over a bunch of questions, I want to advise you, stop being hard on yourself.”
An hour later, with Troy’s head still spinning, they stepped off the elevator onto one of the medical clinic’s floors. A cheery level-two operator and a receptionist greeted them. “We’re heading to PT4,” Tim said, flashing his ID. He walked with Troy toward the door leading to the secure medical area.
Troy held up his hand in a fist and turned. “May I use your phone?”
The operator lifted the phone on the counter. “Here you go,” she said.
Troy lifted the receiver. “This is Sierra Delta Two, Tango Bravo. Request night supervisor to medical PT. Violation of identification protocol.”
The operator cringed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bremen. I thought...”
Troy stopped her. “There is no thinking. This is a black and white situation. In the time you let me walk those few steps, if I had the desire, I could turn this into a crime scene.”
The elevator doors opened. Two supervisors stepped out.
“Failure to request ID. Replace for the shift. And notify her squad boss to be in my office at 0730.”
“Yes, sir,” one supervisor said.
“Good. I will be in the building, but I’m signing off. Any issues, contact the duty boss.”
Chapter 9
“Brandon Finch advised me you could split your brain from personal to professional. I saw it earlier tonight at the psych hospital and now. We need to focus on you. Both halves.” Tim turned to face him. “Take a breath. We talked about this. We’re going to do some assessments of your muscle strength, including your sphincter.”
Troy felt his guard rise, along with his shoulders. He started the inner mantra he learned to ease his anxiety as sweat began to form on his brow. He opened and closed his fists to stem the tremors in his hands. As he approached the door, he stumbled, grabbing Tim’s elbow to steady himself. “Sorry.”
“I can give you something to take the edge off.” Tim kept his hand on Troy’s elbow as he opened the door.
“No, I can’t go through anxiety-producing things always sedated,” Troy said—mostly for himself.
Sitting on a chair, coffee in one hand and phone in the other, was Martin Bailey, CEO of Chase Security International and one of Troy’s best friends. “Gotta go,” Martin ended his call and stood. “Did you think you’d have to go through this alone?”
“You didn’t have to come,” Troy protested.
“Shut up. You’re the number two of our biggest branch. The cement truck following you to the psych hospital—the driver and the driver of the car behind the truck are in interrogation downstairs. You got another crazy call about Gwen. Those are reasons enough. And the sweat on your brow and upper lip is the decisive factor. Tim, what does he have to do?” Martin asked, a touch of worry in his voice.
“Troy, head into the changing room. Shorts and a t-shirt. I’m going to change too,” Tim said.
Waiting, Troy sat on the exam table. “Beth? The girls? How are they? You only got them home two weeks ago.”
