He inspects the raw bone.
“It’s bad?” asks Sally, already knowing the answer is yes.
“It’s a severe break.”
“Mrs. Cowley says the leg needs to be amputated? To reduce the risk of infection.”
“That’s an option.”
Sally cocks her head to get a better look at him. “Are you suggesting there’s another one?”
“We can always set the bone and hope for the best.”
“Why would we do that?” Sally demands. “If the risk of infection is much higher?”
“Well,” says Dr. Foushee slowly. “She is a mother.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Mr. Campbell will have to consider how she is to look after so many young children if she becomes a cripple.”
Sally is outraged that Margaret’s ability to chase after a toddler should be the measure of her life’s worth. “How is she to look after all those children if she’s dead?”
Dr. Foushee places a hand on Sally’s shoulder. “These are exceedingly trying times.”
She cannot bear his condescension, and when he stands to go, she says as assertively as she knows how, “I believe I speak for her when I say I want the leg amputated.”
He nods, but it’s like he’s not hearing her. Finally, he says, “We’ll see.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t you here, right now, to perform the surgery?”
He shakes his head no. “I need a few hours to fetch more supplies. And an extra man.”
“Is that not too long to wait?”
“It’s all I can do,” he says.
“What do we do until then?”
“I’d start by trying to locate Mr. Campbell.”
“Why?”
“Well, he is her husband,” says Dr. Foushee. “And, assuming he is alive, it is up to him—and not you—to decide if she keeps the leg.”
JACK
Jack is almost to ProfessorGirardin’s when Anderson overtakes him. He’s been closing in on him for the last several blocks, shouting at Jack to slow down, but it’s not until they are in front of the house that Anderson finally grabs him by the collar and pulls him to the ground.
Jack lies there in the freezing muck, staring up at the still-orange sky, and wondering if he’s about to be murdered. That’s usually how it goes in the theater. Pick a play. Whenever one of the characters knows too much, he gets expended.
Anderson looms over him. “Christ, Gibson,” he says, trying to catch his breath.
Jack squeezes his eyes shut tight. “Please don’t kill me,” he whispers.
“Who said anything about killing you?” says Anderson as he grabs Jack by the hand. “Get up.”
When they have both recovered themselves, Anderson says, “Placide would greatly prefer you not report us, but he’s not really the murderous sort.”
