A Stroke of Bad Luck
by:  Satchie

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Disclaimer:  Alas, the characters of the Emergency! universe belong to Mark VII Limited and Universal Television.  I merely borrowed them again for another cheap thrill.

Acknowledgements:  I am deeply indebted to Julie Novakovic R.N.  BScN for her invaluable assistance in torturing my favorite paramedic, to Audrey for the thoroughly awesome beta, and to Sheila for graciously allowing me to pick her brains.

Dedication:  In memory of my beloved Louie, who taught me how to find joy even in the midst of grief.

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Roy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and sang along with the old Otis Redding hit playing on the radio.  Normally he would have felt self-conscious warbling in the car with such unbridled enthusiasm while waiting for the traffic light to change, but after the past two weeks, it was a cathartic experience.  The lilting cadence and lyrics were strangely therapeutic, and Roy relaxed as he provided his unique harmony to the pleasant tune.

"Sittin' in the mornin' sun, I'll be sittin' when the evening comes.  Watching the ships roll in, then I watch them roll away again..."

He daydreamed about sitting alone at the end of a fishing wharf, lost to the world of time.  In his fantasy, Roy luxuriated in the sun's warmth and the occasional ocean breeze that caressed his face.  As he dangled his legs over the edge of the pier, waves gently crashed against the wooden support beams, bathing his feet with the salty mist.

Roy sighed.  Now that would be an ideal vacation.  Just enjoying the day with no schedule to adhere to or people making any demands of him.  Why couldn't he have done something like that instead of agreeing to hit several tourist spots with Joanne's family?  That wasn't a vacation -- it was a preview of hell!  He had never gotten along with his mother-in-law, so her constant rebukes and complaints didn't surprise him at all.  But he hadn't anticipated how much his sister-in-law and her children would annoy him.  To make matters worse, all of the women decided to suspend several basic disciplinary rules during their odyssey to the Grand Canyon, Carlsbad Caverns and the bazillion little trinket and turquoise shops along the way.  The children immediately grasped the implications of the relaxed restrictions, and devolved into screaming little savages.  Each time he attempted to re-establish some semblance of order and discipline, Eileen snapped at him.  How dare he threaten to ruin her precious vacation!  At one point, Roy was seriously concerned that his fragile sanity would finally give way, and he would awaken in a mental institution somewhere between New Mexico and California.  A shudder reverberated throughout his spine as he remembered one of the children's numerous off-key musical renditions during the long journey.

"There was a farmer had a dog, and Bingo was his name-o.  B-I-N-G-O!  B-I-N-G-O!  B-I-N-G-O!  And Bingo was his name-o!"

Desperate to erase the unpleasant memory, Roy cranked up the radio's volume to drown out the competing tune in his head.  A smile of satisfaction spread across his features as he resumed bellowing the familiar lyrics.  Roy was slightly embarrassed when the man in the adjacent car gave him an odd look, but he feigned nonchalance.

"Looks like nothing's gonna change, everything still remains the same.  I can't do what ten people tell me to do..."

Roy laughed out loud.  He could totally empathize with that last phrase.  For two agonizing weeks, the three women felt the constant need to tell him what to do.  Fragments of their oft-repeated criticisms replayed in his head like a broken record.

Roy, don't drive so fast.  Roy, don't drive so slow.  Roy, don't you dare tell the children to be quiet.  Roy, make them shut up.  Roy, how could you be so stupid and pick a motel that doesn't have a swimming pool for the kids?   Roy, you can't let the kids go swimming tonight because they'll never settle down before bedtime.  Roy, you shouldn't take so many rest breaks along the way because it's slowing us down.  Roy, you need to stop at the next service station because the kids have to pee again.

He thought Eileen was going to whack him over the head with an overpriced Stuckey's pecan log for trying to point out the correlation between buying the kids more soft drinks at each pit stop, and the inevitable necessity of yet more frantic searches for Texaco stations or hole-in-the-wall souvenir shops.  He was thoroughly frustrated with the women's lack of planning and foresight.  After all, it was common knowledge that the gas tank should be empty and the kids' bladders should be full at the same time.

He never thought he'd see the day when he was desperate to get away from his own family, and felt a twinge of guilt for eagerly counting the days until he reported back to work.  No matter how juvenile he thought his coworkers behaved on some occasions, he now considered the petty arguments and pranks to be a welcome slice of heaven.  As Roy pulled into his customary parking spot at the station, he pledged to take such squabbling and hi-jinks in stride from now on.  There was a pronounced lilt in his step as he exited the car and headed inside.  Yep, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, Johnny and Chet were arguing about who got the last cup of coffee...  Roy's shoulders slumped immediately upon entering the day room.  He reminded himself of his pledge to be more charitable of his coworkers' faults, and resolved to overlook their antics.

Chet splayed his left hand across his chest in a defensive posture.  "How was I supposed to know you wanted the last cup?  Do I look like The Amazing Kreskin?  If you hadn't been dawdling in the locker room so long, you would have heard me ask, 'Does anyone want this last cup of coffee?'  No one laid claim to it, so I helped myself.  You know how it goes.  It's like the Bible says, 'God helps those who help themselves.'" He noisily slurped from the precariously full mug in his other hand.  "Besides, I was going to make a fresh pot in a minute after I finished drinking this."

"Why couldn't you make a fresh pot and drink your coffee at the same time?" Johnny rasped.  "Oh, yeah.  That's like asking to you walk and chew gum.  What was I thinking?"

Roy winced at the gravelly quality of Johnny's voice.  "You sound awful."

"Nah, I'm okay.  Just took in a little smoke last shift."  Johnny grinned sheepishly.  "By the way, welcome back."

"I'm glad to be back.  Home sweet home."  Roy scrutinized his partner's appearance.  There were dark circles under his eyes, his complexion was pale and he seemed to be moving in slow motion.  The older paramedic was skeptical of Johnny's insistence he was fine.  "Last shift?  Maybe you should see one of the docs at Rampart today.  After a couple of days off, your voice shouldn't sound that hoarse."  He was puzzled when Chet and Johnny erupted into explosive laughter.

"Last shift?  Days off?"  Chet thumbed toward Roy.  "Hey, Gage.  Can you believe this poor delusional soul is under the impression we get days off?"

Johnny dumped the used coffee grounds into the wastebasket and rinsed the still warm percolator.  "He probably went to go see one of those psychics before he planned his vacation so he could skip out in the nick of time."

A thoroughly confused Roy rubbed the back of his neck.  "What are you talking about?"

Chet's jaw dropped wide open.  "Where did you go on vacation?  On another planet or under a giant mushroom?  Didn't you see us on the news?"

Roy warily regarded his colleague.  "We didn't get to see much TV except for kiddie cartoons.  What happened?"

Plopping into the nearest chair, Chet prepared to regale Roy with their recent trials and tribulations.  "We've had eleven brushfires since you've been gone.  Between the arsonist setting the fires and the Santa Ana winds whipping up to about sixty miles per hour, we've been working our butts off.  HQ called up practically everyone in the department.  After the second day, help started pouring in from just about everywhere.  Sacramento, San Diego, Fresno...we were even getting firefighters and equipment from out of state.  Jerry said some volunteers from as far away as Texas showed up.  I tell you, it was hotter than the hinges of Hell.  The temperature was already running over a hundred degrees.  Guys were dropping right and left from heat exhaustion."  Chet gestured in Johnny's direction.  "Your buddy over there was goldbricking at Rampart for a few hours yesterday.  He gave Captain Hookrader a lame excuse about mild dehydration and smoke inhalation or some such nonsense.  I think Johnny has gotten soft as a paramedic.  You know, forgotten what real work is like."

Chet playfully winked at Roy while rummaging through the white bakery box on the table.  He plucked a cherry jelly-filled doughnut from the dwindling selection and shoved it into his mouth.  Mumbling around the scarcely chewed bite of pastry, Chet continued his tale of woe.  "Marco, Johnny and I had to cover for half of C-Shift.  Charlie busted up his ankle, Tony sprained his back and Stuart took in a lot of smoke."

Johnny vainly tried to stifle a dry, hacking cough as he scooped the appropriate amount of coffee into the percolator's metal basket.  "I'm glad they finally caught the jerk who was setting all those fires.  Can you believe it?  A guy from the forest service goes around torching thousands of acres because he didn't get a lousy promotion!"

Massaging his temples, Chet groaned piteously.  "Gage, do we have any aspirin left?  I still have Excedrin headache number one hundred and one."

"Nope.  I took the last two this morning after we got back from that warehouse fire."

"What?  You took the last two aspirin and you're whining that I got the last cup of coffee?"

Johnny dryly parroted Chet's earlier remark.  "'God helps those who help themselves.' Anyway, it was Benjamin Franklin that said that, not the Bible."

Chet set his cup down and vigorously shook his head.  "Gage, you are so dumb.  Everybody knows that's from the Good Book."

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

Roy inwardly cringed.  This conversation was beginning to sound eerily reminiscent of being trapped in a rental van with a bunch of screaming kids.  Had he merely traded one group of quarreling children for another?  Catching himself before he threatened to stop the car and reach over the back seat as a means of ending the escalating argument, Roy ran toward the dorm to change.

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Nearly five hours later, Johnny bonelessly slumped against the squad door as they headed back to the station after their seventh call of the morning.  Normally he would have cracked a joke about how Roy never let him drive the squad, but today he was grateful for the opportunity to catch a few winks.  Between the car accident on the 405 and the warehouse fire last night, Johnny had only managed to catch a two-hour nap.  Come to think about it, he couldn't remember the last time he got a good night's sleep.  He was in dire need of a caffeine jolt, but every time he came within ten feet of the station's coffee pot, the squad would get called out on a nuisance run.  Johnny was convinced that fate had maliciously conspired against him.  His luck didn't improve at Rampart, either.  Unfortunately, the food service vendor had screwed up the hospital's order and had left only decaffeinated coffee for the emergency room.  Johnny was almost glad it was a hectic morning.  The short spurts of adrenaline before calls helped to boost his flagging energy.  Rays of brilliant sunlight streamed through the windshield, exacerbating his lethargic state.  Part of him felt obligated to stay awake, while another part of him was ready to curl into a fetal position and hibernate for about six months.  Johnny closed his eyes and studied the backs of his eyelids while he contemplated his plight.

Roy's concerned voice penetrated through the fog.  "Johnny, are you okay?"

"Huh?"

"I asked if you were okay.  Three times, to be exact."

Johnny cleared his throat as he fought to stave off a bout of coughing.  "Yeah.  Sorry about that."  Glancing at his watch, he bemoaned his tragic dilemma.  "Oh, man.  I'd kill for a cup of coffee about now.  Not that watered down junk like they had at Rampart.  That was nasty!  It tasted like dishwater!"

A hint of a smile danced about Roy's lips.  "Since when did you start drinking dishwater?"

"What?  Oh.  I didn't mean I actually know from personal experience or anything.  Decaf tastes funny, that's all.  Sort of flat."

"How can coffee taste flat?  It's not supposed to be fizzy like soda water."

"Um...ah...I..."  Johnny's body posture immediately straightened, and he excitedly waved his hands in the air while he sought to clarify his statement.  "You see...it's because...  Oh, I don't know!  It just doesn't taste like real coffee."

His partner's flustered demeanor amused Roy.  It was sort of like watching the scene of a horrific traffic accident.  He felt slightly guilty for staring at Johnny's distress, yet strangely fascinated.  It wasn't often that the younger man was at a loss for words.  Flipping the sun visor down, Roy decided to prolong the ordeal a bit longer.  "You know, decaffeinated coffee is real coffee."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is.  They simply extract the caffeine from the coffee beans while retaining most of the flavor compounds."

"Most of the flavor compounds?  C'mon, Roy.  Have you ever tasted decaf?"

Unable to keep up the ruse any longer, Roy snickered.  "Yeah.  I know what you mean.  Joanne bought some Sanka a few months ago.  An article in one of those women's magazines said it was healthier, but it neglected to mention that decaffeinated coffee tastes like raw sewage."

Johnny laughed.  "I don't know if I'd go that far or not.  But to tell you the truth, I don't think decaf is going to catch on.  This health nut fad is going to pass, trust me.  Besides, I don't believe giving up caffeine makes you live longer.  It just seems like it when you're miserable."

As they neared the intersection, Roy pointed toward the doughnut shop on the corner.  "Hey, partner.  What do you say we grab a cup of hot java before we get called out again?"

"Oh, yeah?  That would really hit the spot!"  Johnny was already salivating at the opportunity to imbibe in the rich aromatic brew, anticipating the renewed energy that would soon be coursing through his veins.  Before Roy could signal to change lanes, the squad's radio crackled to life.

"Squad 51, child down at 1-9-6-2 Lombardi Drive, cross street Lambeau.  1-9-6-2 Lombardi Drive.  Time out 12:58."

The disappointed paramedic picked up the microphone.  "Squad 51, 10- 4."  Returning the scorned item to its holder, Johnny mumbled a vile oath.

Roy sympathetically patted Johnny's shoulder.  "Maybe we'll luck out and won't have to transport anyone to Rampart.  If that's the case, I promise I'll swing back this direction and buy you a large cup of coffee.  I might even spring for a cherry jelly-filled doughnut."

Johnny mustered a half-hearted crooked grin.  "If you're paying, I'll have a chocolate chocolate-filled one, too."

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Recognition dawned on the squad's navigator as they neared their intended destination.  "I thought this address sounded familiar," Johnny declared.  "Sam's Sack-n-Save."

Roy pulled into the store's empty parking lot.  "Are you sure this is the right place?  I don't see anyone."  The deserted premises made him uneasy.  In these types of surroundings, they never knew whether they were responding to a bona fide emergency, false alarm or the criminal element in search of the narcotics they carried in their drug box.

Johnny confirmed the location.  "I'm positive this is it.  I used to stop by here to pick up hot dogs on the way to Debbie's apartment.  I think Sam's moved to that new shopping center that opened up last week."

If it weren't for the potential seriousness of the situation, Roy would have laughed at his partner's remark.  No wonder Johnny was still single.  Despite their protestations to the contrary, most girls expected to be wined and dined in a nice restaurant at some point.  He had barely parked the squad and switched off the ignition when a short, stout figure emerged from behind the faux stucco building.

The distraught elderly woman dropped to her knees and wept.  "Thank God you're here!"

While Roy gathered the biophone and drug box from the compartments, Johnny helped the woman to her feet.  She was sobbing so convulsively that she was almost hiccupping.  Johnny retrieved his handkerchief and handed it to her while speaking in a soothing cadence.  "Ma'am, my name is Johnny, and this here is my partner, Roy.  Can you tell us what happened?"

She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief.  "Um, I'm Essie Wilson.  I was hopin' to find a box to mail a birthday present in, and...  My sweet Lord!  Somebody done throwed a baby in that big ol' trash can!"

Johnny ran toward the overflowing blue dumpster.  The stench was unbearable, made worse by the unrelenting mid-day August sun.  It almost smelled like fingernail polish remover.  He instinctively started breathing through his mouth while he pulled a couple of large boxes off of the heap.  Almost immediately, he heard a faint high-pitched noise.

"I hear it!"  Johnny tossed the rotting refuge aside with determined effort in order to clear a path to the muffled cries.  After he plowed through the top layer of debris, it was obvious the victim was buried deep within the insufferably hot metal container.  Johnny scaled the side and jumped into the garbage bin.  Frantically throwing sacks of decaying oranges and potatoes over the side, he searched for his victim.  The soft whimpers were rapidly fading, spurring Johnny to hasten his labors.  Finally, he spotted a slight movement beneath the gobs of slimy, shredded paper.  He yanked the soggy material aside, and his eyes widened at his discovery.  It was a squealing kitten!

Roy studied the squirming mass of wet fur.  "It's so little.  How on earth did it get in there?"

Mrs. Wilson dabbed at her eyes again.  "Lord have mercy!  That poor creature didn't get in here by hisself.  Somebody throwed him away like a piece of garbage!  How could a soul be so evil?  Why, whoever did this must have a heart as hard as Pharaoh's."

Johnny handed the mewing bundle to Roy while he crawled out of the dumpster.  Once he was back on terra firma, he retrieved the kitten from his partner.  He was rewarded by a loud purr as the filthy feline nuzzled against his chest.  "Hey, little guy.  It's going to be okay.  You're all safe now."  Johnny performed a cursory examination of his furry patient.  "Roy, its nose is all gummed up with something.  Would you hand me some moistened 4x4s?"

Roy automatically reached into the drug box.  He couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in his partner's tender ministrations.  There was something special about Johnny's bond with animals that was so endearing.  He irrigated a couple of gauze pads with sterile water and handed them to his friend.

"Thanks, man."  Johnny gently wiped the kitten's nose and mouth.  In view of the tacky mucous membranes, it wasn't surprising that the tiny creature wanted to suck on the damp gauze.  He cupped his hand and thrust it toward Roy.  "Squirt some of that water over here.  Looks like someone needs a drink."

Without a moment's hesitation, Roy complied with the request.  Johnny stuck the liquid under the kitten's face, but it was summarily ignored despite his entreaties.  His brow furrowed in concentration.  "He looks awfully young.  I wonder if he's been weaned?  He might not know how to drink from a bowl yet.  I guess I could squirt some water in his mouth."

The woman timidly drew closer.  "Mind if I give it a try?  We used to have lots of cats on the farm when I was a girl.  'Course, that's been a few years, but I reckon I ain't lost my touch."

As soon as Johnny gave his consent, Mrs. Wilson dipped her finger into the water cupped in his hand.  She placed a drop on the kitten's nose and waited.  At first, it appeared bewildered by the strange wet sensation on its face.  However, whether out of thirst or curiosity, the kitten finally flicked his tongue and made contact with the cool droplet.  Its ecstatic expression encouraged Mrs. Wilson to try again.  This time, the thirsty feline didn't hesitate to repeat the process.  She asked Johnny to offer the water from his hand again, and this time it was gratefully accepted.  The kitten purred as it greedily slurped the refreshing liquid.

"See, he just needed a little help.  Poor fella.  He must be bone dry."  Mrs. Wilson's wistful countenance suddenly changed to one of concern.  "What are you gonna do with him?  You ain't gonna take him to the city pound, are you?"

Johnny stroked the kitten between its ears.  "Nah.  We'll figure something out.  But my apartment doesn't allow pets, and the station already has a mascot."

"Do you reckon it would be okay if I kept it?" she asked hopefully.  "It would be a real blessin'.  My Leon passed away 'bout a year ago, and I sure could use some company."

Roy handed the small bottle of sterile water to the elderly woman.  "Looks like you'll be needing this."

Mrs. Wilson excitedly clasped her hands together.  "Thank you, Jesus!  This kitty is the answer to a prayer."

Carefully dislodging the needle-sharp claws, Johnny extricated the kitten from his uniform shirt and handed him to his new owner.  "Here ya go, buddy.  Meet your new mama."

A radiantly happy Mrs. Wilson gazed at the purring creature in her arms.  "Gracious me!  You look like you was made out of scraps like a crazy patchwork quilt.  I ain't never seen a coat with so many colors."  Realizing what she had just said, Mrs. Wilson squealed with delight.  "That's it!  I'm gonna name you after that fella Joseph from the Bible, 'cause you done got you a coat of many colors."

On an intellectual level, Johnny knew that the kitten was in good hands, but he still felt a slight twinge of regret that his role in this small drama was over.  He haphazardly brushed some of the produce debris from his pants legs.  "It might be a good idea to have a vet take a look at him to make sure he's going to be okay."

Mrs. Wilson frowned.  "Oh, dear.  How am I goin' to manage that?  I can't take him on the bus.  I s'pose I'll have to walk to the bank and take out some taxi money."

Johnny instinctively reached into his back pocket.  This was something he could help with.  Leaving ten dollars for himself, he gave her the rest of his cash.  "Here, take this.  There's an animal clinic over on Mulberry Street.  I have a friend who works there.  If you call and ask for Angie, she can probably work Joseph in today."

The woman hesitated.  "It's not gonna cost that much.  I hate to take all your hard-earned money."

He pressed the bills into her hand.  "Go ahead and take it.  I'll feel better knowing he's getting a thorough going over.  And if there's anything left, buy him some toys or one of those little baskets to sleep in.  I think he's seen enough boxes for a while."

Mrs. Wilson laughed as she tucked the money into her brassiere.  "You're right 'bout that!  From here on, it's nothin' but the best for my brand new baby."  She gave Johnny a hearty bear hug.  "God bless you, son.  I promise I'll buy Joseph one of them highfalutin' baskets with a cushion."  She moved the kitten's paw in an up-and-down motion.  "Bye-bye, fellas.  Thank you for what you done."

Roy watched the departing woman as he picked up their gear.  There was now a bounce to her gait, and a musical quality to her voice.  He was convinced that more than one life had been saved today.  Although he didn't believe that people could literally die of loneliness, Roy had seen far too many widowed people simply give up on life after their spouse passed away.  It was such a shame that families had become so scattered these days.  Kids grew up and moved away, had families of their own, and often forgot to keep in touch with the older folks.

He chuckled during the walk back to the squad.  On the other hand, sometimes there was a reason adult children didn't visit their elders frequently.  Joanne's mother immediately came to mind.  If Roy had known then what he knew now, he would gladly have stayed in Los Angeles and fought brushfires instead of going on vacation.  His contemplative reverie was soon interrupted by the sound of his partner's complaining.

"Oh, man!  We're not going to be able to stop by that doughnut shop now.  They'll never let me in.  I'll scare all of the customers away."  Brushing another glob of decaying lettuce leaves from his uniform, Johnny grumbled.  "Shoot, even the shower isn't going to be too happy to see me."  The corners of his mouth curled up slightly.  "Um, Roy?  You're not going to make me ride back on top of the squad, are you?"

Roy grabbed a blanket pack and tossed it to his friend.  "Nah, but you'd better use this to keep the seat from getting all yucky."

"Yucky?  What kind of a word is 'yucky'?" Johnny teased as he unfolded the plastic blanket.  "Did you pick that up from the kids during your trip?"

Blushing slightly, Roy nodded.  "Yeah.  You'd be surprised what kind of words I picked up from them."

"Did they pick up any words from you?"

"Only ones that would get their mouths washed out with soap," Roy ruefully admitted.

"That bad, huh?"

"That bad."

Wrapping himself in the yellow blanket, Johnny hopped into the squad.  The enclosed space immediately invoked a renewed assault to his olfactory sense.  Noxious fumes from the rotting fruit, vegetables and other unidentifiable substances stubbornly clung to his uniform.  For a couple of seconds, he thought he was going to be sick to his stomach.  Johnny rolled down his window.  He was about to suggest that Roy do the same, and was chagrined to discover that his friend was already a step ahead of him.

Roy switched on the ignition and shifted the squad into gear.  A loud rumbling in his stomach prompted him to look at his watch, and he groaned when he noted the time.  "Darn it.  On top of everything else, we probably missed lunch."

Johnny picked another clump of decomposing lettuce from his clothes.  "I think I've seen enough food for a while.  But I sure hope somebody brewed a fresh pot of coffee."

The older paramedic hesitated.  Offering advice to his temperamental partner often backfired, making for a very uncomfortable shift.  However, his concern for Johnny's welfare eventually won out over any potential bruised feelings.  Keeping his eyes on the road, he tried to keep any hint of a paternalistic or accusatory tone from his voice.  "Ah, Johnny.  You know, maybe a nap might wake you up more than a cup of coffee would.  If you need caffeine because you didn't get much sleep last night, wouldn't it make more sense to catch a few Zs when we get back to the station?"

To his relief, Johnny didn't take offense at the well-intended remark.  Instead, he merely shrugged.  "I dunno."

Roy cautiously pursued the subject.  "In addition to washing off some of that muck, a hot shower would probably make you feel relaxed and sleepy.  Plus, the steam would soothe your throat.  I know it always makes me feel better after I've eaten some smoke."

After mulling the idea over, Johnny reluctantly agreed.  "That actually sounds great.  It would probably help my back, too."

"Back?  What's wrong with your back?"

"My muscles feel kind of tight and sore.  Swinging an axe and shoveling dirt day after day gets old in a hurry."  There was a familiar gleam in the tired eyes.  "But don't you dare tell Chet I said that, not in a million years.  I wouldn't want to give the Phantom any ammunition that could come back to haunt me.  And you have to promise there will be a fresh pot of coffee waiting for me when I wake up."

"You got it, partner."  Roy mentally congratulated himself.  That was much easier than he expected.  Then again, after losing arguments to three very determined women during his so-called vacation, Roy had forgotten how sweet the taste of victory could be.

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Johnny had been uncharacteristically quiet during the ride back to the station.  At first Roy welcomed the respite, but as the minutes ticked by, he became increasingly concerned.  He cast a furtive glance in Johnny's direction.  Nothing seemed amiss, but Roy felt a growing sense of apprehension.  There was something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.  When they were about a block from the station, Roy finally summoned the intestinal fortitude to broach the subject.

"Johnny, are you sure you're okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"You seem like you're in your own little world today.  Do you feel like you're coming down with some kind of bug, or is something on your mind?"

The blanket rustled as Johnny shifted position.  "It's not that big of a deal.  Not really.  It's just that...well...some days Chet gets on my nerves more than usual.  I swear, it's his life's mission to drive me stark raving bananas.  I'm sick and tired of being the butt of his jokes all the time.  And here I am, practically wearing a neon sign that says, 'kick me.' The way I smell, I can't even stand to be around myself.  But is he going to cut me a break?  Heck, no.  I can already see it coming.  Chet will make a bunch of lame jokes about my unique fragrance, and then when he thinks he's milked it for all it's worth, he'll claim he's doing everybody a big favor by drenching me with water bombs."

Roy relaxed slightly.  He could definitely see Johnny's point.  Chet was a good guy at heart, but he did tend to drive his pigeon to despair with his teasing and practical jokes.  As Roy backed the squad into its customary place in the vehicle bay, he sought to offer some measure of reassurance.  "Chet wouldn't pick on you if he didn't like you so much."

Johnny snorted.  "Right.  Chet picks on me because he likes me.  You're funny, Roy."

"I'm not kidding.  It's a guy thing."

"A guy thing?" Johnny repeated.  "What on earth are you talking about?"

"You know, guys aren't the mushy type.  We don't go around telling people how we feel, especially if we think someone is going to kid us about it." Roy turned toward his partner.  "Remember back in grade school when we'd have a crush on a girl?  We didn't dare do anything nice, because we were afraid our buddies would make fun of us.  So we'd pull a mean prank or do something stupid."

A sly grin crept across Johnny's features.  "So are you saying I have to buy Chet a Hallmark card and box of chocolates for Valentine's Day?"

Rubbing his chin, Roy considered the question.  "Nah.  I was thinking of something more practical, like sneaking some Nair into the Phantom's shampoo instead."

Johnny laughed as he got out of the squad.  "Sounds like a plan."  He wadded the malodorous blanket into ball and tossed it into the trashcan before heading inside.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

The smell of brewing coffee greeted the returning paramedics as they breezed through the doorway.  Johnny lingered at the entrance, closing his eyes to savor the rich aroma.  Ahhhhh.  In typical Pavlovian fashion, he began to salivate in response to the familiar stimulus.  Maybe he'd have a quick cup of coffee before he washed up.

As if reading his mind, Roy audibly cleared his throat.  "Ahem.  We had an agreement.  Shower, nap and coffee...in that order."

Passing by with a bucket of mop water, Chet caught a whiff of his hapless coworker.  He scrunched his face in disgust at the offending odor.  "Phew!  Have you been wallowing around in a pig sty again looking for a new girlfriend?"

Johnny rolled his eyes.  "No, I had to crawl into a garbage dumpster on a rescue."

"What did you rescue?  A skunk?"

"Chet..."

"Dang, Gage.  We ought to take you out back and hose you down before you infect the rest of us with your cooties."

Captain Stanley emerged from his office with an empty ceramic mug.  En route to the coffee pot for a refill, the putrid smell emanating from his youngest paramedic made him stop dead in his tracks.  "John, what happened to you, pal?"

Chet held his nose for dramatic emphasis.  "Gage is trying to kill our appetites.  Looks like we're finally going to get a chance to chow down, and Pepé Le Pew has to go stink up the place.  Well, more so than usual."

"He's on his way to the shower," Roy hastily interjected.  "Right, Johnny?"

The beleaguered paramedic reached into the cupboard.  "Yeah, yeah.  Let me get a quick sip of coffee first."

Captain Stanley assumed his most authoritative stance and pointed toward the facilities.  "Shower, John.  Now."

Resigned to his fate, Johnny headed toward his destination with the enthusiasm of a lamb being led to slaughter.  He was almost too tired to care that everyone had burst into applause.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Although Johnny hated to admit it, the shower was extremely relaxing.  He could feel the tension in his body melt away as the steady stream of hot water massaged his sore muscles.  Unfortunately, the scent of rotting garbage seemed to be indelibly etched into his memory.  No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't get rid of the peculiar acetone-like odor that clung to his nostrils.  That was strange.  Usually a good lathering or two would at least dilute a stubborn chemical smell.

Determined to give it one last try, Johnny reached for the soap with his right hand.  He cursed under his breath when the bar slid from his fingers and onto the tile.  Damn.  That was the third time that had happened.  Johnny was beginning to suspect that the Phantom had played yet another cruel prank on him.  Annoyed by his incredible lack of coordination, Johnny bent down to retrieve the elusive item.  He had scarcely picked up his nemesis when it escaped his grasp, yet again.  Uttering an impressive string of profanities, Johnny pushed the bar into a corner with his left foot.  Then he grabbed the soap with both hands and shoved it into the holder before it could cause any further problems.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Freshly showered, Johnny donned a new shirt as he surveyed the pitiful contents of his locker.  He only had one clean uniform left, and that was only because Cap's wife had pity on the A-Shift several days ago and had volunteered to take their clothes to the dry cleaners while they battled the blaze at Topanga Canyon.  Otherwise, he would have been forced to choose between dirty uniforms or his birthday suit.  Of course, it probably wouldn't have mattered too much anyway since he was wearing turnouts most of the time.  Man, those things were like a portable sauna.  He couldn't remember ever sweating so much in his life.  It wasn't surprising that he got a little overheated and dehydrated during the last shift.

Johnny absently picked at the slightly scabbed over IV site in the crook of his right arm.  That was odd.  There was a slight tingling sensation along the extremity that he hadn't noticed before.  Perhaps he banged his elbow against the squad door yesterday harder than he thought.  Johnny knew he didn't hit his funny bone though.  He would definitely have remembered the searing, knife-like pain that temporarily rendered an arm limp and useless.

Returning to the task at hand, Johnny fumbled with the buttons on his shirt again.  Crap.  He didn't recall them being so little before.  Did the dry cleaners shrink them somehow?  Maybe the place Mrs. Stanley took them to used different chemicals or something.  Or maybe Roy was right and he was more tired than he realized.  Oh, well.  No one would see the last couple of buttons if he tucked his shirttails into his pants.  He'd worry about that later.  Right now, he desperately needed that nap.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

A starving Marco looked over Mike's shoulder.  "Isn't that casserole about done yet?"

Chet rubbed his growling stomach.  "Yeah, man.  It's way past dinnertime.  We growing boys need to eat."

Jokingly patting his friend on the behind, Marco remarked, "I think the only direction you're growing is sideways."

Mike donned a pair of oven mitts.  "It should be ready now." "What did you say it was?" asked Captain Stanley.

"A tater tot casserole."

Roy groaned.  "Joanne makes that a lot.  It sure stretches the grocery dollars, but there are way too many vegetables in it to suit my taste."

Cap's eyebrows rose.  "Vegetables?  Mike, are you trying to kill us?"

The health-conscious Chet leapt to his friend's defense.  "Vegetables are good for you.  They have lots of essential vitamins and minerals."  His stomach rumbled again.  "To be honest though, I'm so hungry, I could eat the back bumper off the engine."

"Yeah," Marco agreed.  "I'm so sick and tired of getting called out just before it's time to eat.  I don't think we've had a meal anywhere near on schedule for the past couple of weeks."

Chet retrieved a stack of plates from the pantry.  "Gage said it was the same way over at Station 24.  Every time someone would start cooking, the tones would go off.  They wound up eating nothing but peanut butter and crackers one shift.  I tell you, if Gage misses any more meals, he's going to blow away.  He's too damned skinny as it is."

At the mention of his partner's name, Roy perked up.  "24?  Did Johnny get temporarily reassigned while I was gone?"

"Nah.  He got called in to cover for Jerry Dietrich on B-Shift.  Some family emergency."  Setting the last plate on the table, Chet continued.  "I still can't believe they had the nerve to ask him to pull another shift.  I know resources have been scarce because of the brushfires, but I think they took advantage of Johnny.  He's only had a couple of days off since you've been gone."  Embarrassed about his apparent concern, he hastily added, "Not that it's any of my business, you understand."

Captain Stanley tiredly arched his back.  "If I could find someone to cover John's shift, I'd let him go home.  He looks completely wiped out.  But between vacation schedules and work-related injuries, there simply aren't enough paramedics to go around today.  About the only thing I can do at this point is to stand the squad down for a couple of hours so John can catch some shut-eye."

Roy silently berated himself.  By being on vacation, he had further depleted the available pool of paramedics.  If he had been in town, he could have possibly spared his partner an extra shift or two.

Cap intuitively sensed the senior paramedic's self-flagellating thoughts.  "Roy, I'd be lying if I said you weren't missed.  But it's not like you planned for some idiot to set fire to everything in sight, and everybody needs some time off."  He tilted his head toward the dorm.  "Speaking of your partner, go see if John is still awake.  If he is, he might be willing to choke down a few vegetables."  Captain Stanley suspiciously eyed the tater tot casserole now on the table.  "Then again, maybe not."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Between his exhausted state and the relaxing hot shower, Johnny had erroneously assumed that he would fall into a deep slumber before his head hit the pillow.  He was disappointed when that failed to be the case.  His muscles still screamed in protest of the abuse they had recently endured, despite the amount of aspirin in his system.

At least his right side wasn't quite as sore.  It felt kind of weird and tingly, like when his foot fell asleep.  Perhaps he had briefly dozed off without realizing it, lying on his side in some contorted position that impeded his circulation for a few minutes.  Dreading the usual pins and needles sensation, Johnny attempted to shake off the peculiar numbness in his hand by flexing his fingers.  He was puzzled when the frozen digits refused to obey his will.

Johnny frowned.  That was odd.  Usually when his foot fell asleep, he could move it with a little effort.  Why couldn't he wiggle his fingers?  He made another attempt, but met with the same dismal results.  Were his toes the same way?  Johnny concentrated his attention on his right foot, but he couldn't detect any discernable movement.  He fought to quell his mounting anxiety.  Okay, maybe because he was wearing his shoes, he simply couldn't appreciate any subtle changes.  Once he doffed his footwear, he would be able to perform a more accurate assessment.

With his left hand, Johnny struggled to push himself into a sitting position.  However, his half-numb body refused to cooperate, and he sank back against the mattress.  What the heck was happening to him?  His heart raced as he considered a terrible possibility.  Was he having a stroke?  Was the paralysis permanent?  What if he stopped breathing or choked on his saliva?  What if no one checked in on him soon?  Would he die alone?

Terrified by the chilling prospect, Johnny cried out to his friends.  He was profoundly disappointed when only a few incoherent syllables escaped his lips.  A wave of panic washed over Johnny as he considered his fate, and he began to hyperventilate.  His rational paramedic persona had abandoned him, leaving him to give in to his fears.  Determined to make another desperate plea for assistance, Johnny pulled himself to the edge of the bed.  If he could make it to the floor, he could drag himself across the dorm and bang his only functional hand against the door.

Taking a deep breath, Johnny slung his left arm across his body and rolled toward the edge of his bunk.  Unfortunately, he miscalculated the amount of momentum the task required, and landed on the floor with a resounding thud.  Sprawled across the cold tile between two bunks, Johnny struggled to maneuver his gaunt body toward the doorway.  He had crawled only a couple of feet when the combination of numbness, fatigue and muscle spasms made it impossible to continue his arduous journey.  Johnny wildly flailed his arm in protest of his defeat, and prayed that his partner would rescue him before it was too late.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Roy reluctantly headed toward the dorm.  What was he going to do if Johnny was asleep?  He knew his partner was exhausted and desperately needed the rest, yet Johnny's body also needed fuel in order to function.  Given the younger man's physical condition, his professional judgment could become seriously impaired by either the sleep deprivation or hypoglycemia.  Which was the lesser of the two evils?  Decisions, decisions.

He quietly pushed the door open and softly cleared his throat.  With a little bit of luck, Johnny would be awake and the issue would be moot.  In a soft voice, Roy called out to his partner.  "Johnny?  Are you awake?"

When Johnny responded only with a faint groan, Roy hesitated.  Did that mean he was shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, or was he trapped in the throes of a bad dream?  He thoughtfully weighed his options.  If Johnny was having a nightmare, he would be doing his friend a favor by waking him.  And if he was rousing himself from a catnap, maybe Johnny could use a little help to drag his weary bones out of bed.

As Roy approached Johnny's bunk, he was startled by an erratic rhythm of something hitting the floor.  Roy instinctively quickened his pace.  There were probably a dozen perfectly logical explanations for the strange sound, but at a visceral level he felt it was a portent of doom.  Soon Roy's fears materialized into a tangible form.  Johnny was lying on the floor, his left hand furiously pounding against the linoleum.

Roy knelt down beside his partner.  "Johnny?  What happened?"

Johnny turned his head toward the noise.  "Mmmmm...Rrrooo?"

"Yeah, it's me.  Did you fall?"  There was something about the haunted expression in Johnny's eyes that sent shivers throughout Roy's spine.  He gently placed his fingers against his partner's throat to check Johnny's carotid pulse.  "Johnny, do you remember what happened?"  Roy was met only with a blank, uncomprehending stare.  "C'mon, man.  Talk to me.  Can you hear me?  Johnny? Johnny!"

The fact that Johnny was only moving the left side of his body finally dawned on Roy.  He slipped his fingers into Johnny's hands.  "Can you squeeze my fingers?"

Several seconds elapsed before Johnny complied with the request.  He firmly gripped Roy's fingers with his left hand, but the response on the other side was minimal.  Roy fought back a rising sense of dread as he removed his partner's shoes in preparation for assessing the lower extremities.  "Okay, I want you to press your feet against my hands."  Once again, there was only a slight reaction on the right side.

Johnny shook his head back and forth.  "Rrrooo...caa moo...nuu..."  Overwhelmed by frustration at his inability to speak clearly or follow simple commands, Johnny renewed his assault on the floor tiles.

Roy gently squeezed Johnny's shoulder as a feeble gesture of encouragement.  "It's okay.  We're going to get you to Rampart and get this figured out.  I just need to let the guys know what's going on, all right?"

If Johnny understood, he didn't acknowledge his friend's litany of reassuring phrases.  Instead, he continued to thrash against the floor while Roy went to summon help.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Roy had scarcely passed through the doorway when he collided with a very surprised Chet Kelly.  Unable to stop the backward momentum, Chet fell flat on his behind.  Although his pride was more injured than his backside, he nonetheless felt the need to complain about Roy's apparent recklessness.  "Whoa!  Slow down, Speed Racer.  This isn’t the Indy 500.  Besides, you're supposed to help out at accident scenes, not cause them."

Roy nervously ran his fingers through his hair.  "Something's wrong with Johnny.  I need the drug box, biophone, datascope and oxygen.  We're going to need an ambulance, too."

His wounded pride already forgotten, Chet scrambled to get off the floor.  He didn't bother to ask why Roy needed all of that equipment.  If the paramedic said he needed everything including the kitchen sink, that's what he was going to get.  The explanations could wait.

While Chet ran to get the requested items, Roy performed a more thorough neurological assessment.  The results were not encouraging.  He was checking Johnny's pulse and respiration rate when the remainder of A-Shift filed into the room carrying the medical equipment.

Once Mike set up the biophone and established a link to Rampart, he thrust the receiver into his colleague's eagerly awaiting hands.  Roy's throat was suddenly as dry as the Sahara desert as he gathered his thoughts.  Dozens of potential diagnoses were running through his mind, most of them with bleak prognoses.

Tapping his notebook with a ballpoint pen, Roy began his transmission.  "Rampart, this is Squad 51.  How do you read?"

Dr. Brackett's deep voice responded.  "Go ahead, 51."

Roy fought to maintain his professional composure.  "Rampart, we have a paramedic down at our location.  The victim is..."  No matter how many times he had to fulfill this role, Roy always felt uncomfortable relegating his best friend to this definition.  "Um, victim is a twenty-nine-year-old male.  He has been fatigued and distracted throughout the shift.  Within the past thirty minutes, he has developed pronounced right-sided weakness, facial drooping and impaired speech.  Level of consciousness varies, but victim reacts to pain and most verbal commands.  Pupils are equal and reactive.  Vital signs are as follows:  BP is 164/92, pulse is 104 and respirations are 24.  Also, be advised victim was treated for dehydration and smoke inhalation yesterday."

"51, is your victim John Gage?"

"That's affirmative, Rampart."

The emergency physician winced.  Had Morton overlooked anything yesterday?  According to the intern, Johnny hadn't presented with any complaints or symptoms of head trauma, and Morton certainly didn't mention anything about elevated blood pressure.  Brackett leaned closer toward the microphone.  "51, can you send us a strip?"

Roy hooked up the EKG leads and transmitted the data.  Although Johnny's heart rate was elevated, the datascope showed only sinus tachycardia.  That was one good piece of news.

Studying the paper strip, Brackett confirmed the findings.  "51, EKG shows sinus tach.  Start an IV of Normal Saline TKO, 15 liters of oxygen by mask and transport as soon as possible."

Before Roy could acknowledge the instructions, the guys had already jumped into action.  Mike was setting up the oxygen, while Marco readied the IV paraphernalia.  Roy inflated the blood pressure cuff as a tourniquet, and swabbed Johnny's arm with an alcohol prep pad.  Knowing how needle phobic his partner was, Roy tried to make the process as quick and painless as he could.  However, despite his best technique, Johnny flinched when the needle pierced his skin.  Roy wasn't sure if the reaction was an involuntary reflex or a flicker of awareness.  He almost hoped it wasn't the latter.  It would be a terrifying prospect indeed if Johnny could comprehend the gravity of his condition.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Brackett's mouth twitched as he tried to remember his conversation with Morton shortly before the shift change that morning, when Johnny's name had come up almost in passing.  Over the past twelve days, several firefighters had been brought in with various injuries and heat-related ailments.  Brackett had half-jokingly remarked he was shocked that Johnny had escaped injury thus far.  He wasn't terribly surprised to discover that the accident-prone paramedic had required their services over the weekend.  But as he understood it, Johnny hadn't sustained a blow to the head.  Like most of the firefighters, he had succumbed to heat exhaustion, dehydration and a mild case of smoke inhalation.

While he was asking Dixie to look up Johnny's records from the previous day, Dr. Early emerged from a treatment room.  Brackett shouted across the busy ER to get his attention.  "Joe!"

The neurosurgeon looked up.  "Yeah, Kel?"

Brackett motioned for his colleague to join him at the base station where they conferred about Johnny's symptoms.  Both doctors were all too familiar with the paramedic's extensive medical history, and knew that Johnny had a tendency to tax their diagnostic skills.  The limited information thus far was perplexing.

Stuffing his hands into his lab coat pockets, Early considered the differential diagnoses.  "An A-V malformation doesn't seem likely.  Since they're usually congenital, that would have been picked up on a CT scan by now."

"He's a bit young to be a candidate for a stroke, although it's not impossible," Brackett speculated.  "His blood pressure is definitely elevated, but that could be attributed to anxiety."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.  In view of the rapid onset, he could have an aneurysm and/or subarachnoid hemorrhage."  Early briefly considered another possibility.  "It could also be meningitis or some other central nervous system infection, although I don't think that's likely."

Brackett wanly smiled.  "We'll just have to wait until he gets here to sort all of this out."

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Patience had never been Brackett's greatest virtue.  In fact, he wasn't sure it was a virtue he possessed at all.  Outside the emergency room entrance, Brackett paced back and forth while he waited for Johnny to arrive.  The intense heat from the August sun reflected off the pavement in waves.  In the short period of time he had been standing outside, beads of sweat already dotted his forehead.  He couldn't imagine what it must be like for the firefighters, having to wear full turnout gear in the heat and humidity day after day.

Just when he thought he was going to melt into the asphalt, the Mayfair ambulance pulled up.  Brackett didn't bother to wait for the attendants.  The second the ambulance stopped, he slung the doors open and crawled inside.

Roy draped his stethoscope around his neck.  In a low voice meant only for the doctor's ears, he delivered his update.  "His neuro responses are deteriorating.  I can't detect any movement on the right side at all.  He keeps drifting in and out.  When he's conscious, he's incoherent and agitated."

Brackett placed a comforting hand on Johnny's arm.  "Okay, hose jockey.  Let's get you inside and taken care of."  With a brisk nod of his head, he signaled to the attendants to unload their patient.

Johnny groaned when the gurney hit the pavement.  He hadn't realized it was possible to feel so dizzy while lying down before.  The light-headed sensation that started en route to Rampart had returned with a vengeance.  He thought he was going to pass out a couple of times when the ambulance changed lanes or turned a corner.

A cool blast of air roused Johnny from his fuzzy twilight state.  He was vaguely aware of passing through the emergency entrance and being rolled along the corridor.  After a small eternity, the nauseating motion halted and he felt himself being transferred to an exam table.  With determined effort, Johnny raised his eyelids to half-mast.  His vision was blurry, but Brackett's grim countenance was unmistakable.  Disembodied voices swirled around him, and he strained to comprehend the snippets of rapid-fire conversation.

"...BP's climbing...up to 182/100..."

"...temp is 99.8..."

"...Pulse is 112...EKG still showing sinus tachycardia..."

"…CBC, PTT, ABG…Foley…urinalysis...CT scan..."

"...switching monitors..."

"…Babinski's sign negative bilaterally..."

"...seemed to zone out a couple of times...last run..."

A piercing bright light shone into his eyes, and Johnny tried to swat at the source.  He was annoyed when his efforts were quickly thwarted.

Dixie firmly grasped the intercepted left hand.  "It's okay, Johnny.  Kel needs to check your eyes.  He'll be finished in a minute."

Brackett clicked off the direct ophthalmoscope.  "Pupils are equal and reactive to light.  No swelling of the optic nerves."

Early's voice at the end of the gurney demanded the stricken paramedic's attention.  "Johnny, I want you to press your feet against my hands.  Johnny!  Push your feet against my hands!  Come on, you can do it."

Johnny gritted his teeth in anger.  If he could make his half-imprisoned body respond, he would kick the crap out of the entire emergency room staff.  Why was everyone talking to him like he was a two-year-old?  Just because he couldn't follow simple instructions or spoke in gibberish, didn't mean that he had lost his wits.  And why were they yelling at him?  He hadn't lost his hearing, only the use of part of his body.  Did they honestly think that the increased volume would magically force paralyzed muscles to move again?  If only they'd leave him alone for a minute, he could figure something out.

A sharp pain to his sternum startled him.  Damn it!  That hurt, and he was going to complain about it in no uncertain terms.  "Dooo…"

"Johnny?  Can you squeeze my fingers?"

"Waaa…?"

"Squeeze my fingers as hard as you can."

As he struggled to obey, a frenetic high-pitched alarm pierced the air.  Brackett studied the EKG monitor.  "Joe, his heart rate is going through the roof.  Do you want to give him a beta-blocker?"

"Let's try 2.5 mg. of diazepam IV first," Early replied as he checked his patient's reflexes.  "If his vital signs don't stabilize in a few minutes, we can give him a low dose of propranolol."

Johnny felt something being shoved under his wrist, but he was too exhausted to look.  He couldn't quite place the soft texture.  Gauze?  That was odd.  He didn't remember hurting his arm.  Did he cut himself when he fell out of bed?  While Johnny endeavored to decipher the mystery, someone swabbed an area near his radial artery with a cold substance.  Uh oh.  Before he had a chance to object, an excruciating pain ripped through his forearm.  "Aaarr..."  He struggled to pull away from the exquisite torture, but strong hands intervened.

Cooing reassuring phrases, Dixie brushed his bangs away from his forehead.  "It's okay, Johnny.  Kel is just drawing some blood.  He's almost finished."

Brackett withdrew the needle and placed a thick gauze pad over the wound.  "Carol, keep pressure on this for a few minutes."

The other physician hung up the phone with greater force than the task required.  "Kel, the CT scan is in use.  It will be about fifteen to twenty minutes before they can take Johnny."

"All right.  We might as well get skull x-rays while we're waiting.  Get the portable in here STAT."  Brackett scowled as he studied the heart monitor.  He turned his attention toward Roy.  "Is his BP coming down yet?"

Roy hurriedly inflated the blood pressure cuff.  Holding his breath in anticipation, he released the valve and watched the silver bar of mercury fall.  A lump formed in his throat as he read the numbers out loud.  "178/98."

"Damn.  That's not much change.  The diazepam is hardly making a dent.  Dix, let's give him 2 mg. propranolol IV."  Brackett's mouth formed a tight line.  What were they overlooking?  In view of the elevated vital signs, he didn't want to further upset Johnny by discussing his condition in front of him.  Walking toward the door, he gestured for Roy and Early to join him in the hallway.

When he was satisfied they were out of Johnny's earshot, Brackett asked the paramedic to elaborate upon the morning's events.  Both doctors occasionally interrupted Roy's narrative to ask questions or to clarify statements.  Normally Roy would have been aware of any progression of symptoms, but his recent absence had put him at a considerable disadvantage.  Relying upon his observations throughout the morning and his coworkers' comments, Roy answered as best as he could.

Brackett slumped against the wall while he collected his thoughts.  Considering who their patient was, his next question seemed ridiculous, but he was obligated to cover every base.  "Do you know if he was taking any medication?"

"If he was, he didn't mention it.  Well, except for the aspirin."

Early immediately picked up on Roy's revelation.  "Aspirin?"

"Yeah.  Apparently he took some before the shift change, but I don't know what time.  It couldn't have been any later than 7:45 though, because Chet was complaining that Johnny had taken the last two."

The neurosurgeon frowned.  "Did he have a headache?"

Afraid he had overlooked an important clue, Roy dejectedly stared at the floor.  "I don't think so.  But you know Johnny.  He doesn't always volunteer information."  Recalling the conversation after their last run, he added, "But he did say that his back hurt."

Brackett zeroed in on the remark.  "Did he specify where?  High?  Low?"

"No, and I didn't ask.  It didn't seem that important at the time.  The way he was talking, I assumed it was muscle strain."

Sensing that the paramedic was blaming himself for some imagined shortcoming, Early smiled kindly.  "I know I'd be wasting my breath if I told you not to worry.  But we're going to do everything we can to figure this out, okay?"

Roy numbly fingered the HT.  "I need to call Cap and let him know what's going on."  He offered up an unspoken prayer as he headed toward the pay phones.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

In the sanctuary of his office, Hank Stanley ignored the persistent hunger pangs while he busied himself with a ream of paperwork.  Mike's casserole was surprisingly good, even if it did contain half a dozen vegetables.  But like everyone else, he lost his appetite after his younger paramedic became ill.

Hank loosened the grip on his pencil, tapping the desk in a rhythmic staccato.  The mindless activity helped to soothe his frayed nerves.  Why didn't he see how sick Johnny was?  For crying out loud, it was his job to look after his men.  It was patently obvious that Johnny was in no condition to work another shift.  The poor man was exhausted.  If only he had tried harder to find a replacement, Johnny might not be half-paralyzed right now.  After all, it only took nine more phone calls before he managed to make arrangements to cover the rest of Johnny's shift.

Engrossed in self-recrimination, Hank didn't hear the knock at the doorway or see anyone approach.  A light pressure on his arm abruptly tore him from his morbid thoughts.  He gasped as he swatted at the unexpected intrusion.  "Geez, Kelly!  Are you trying to give me a heart attack?  Don't sneak up on me like that."

"Sneak up?" Chet protested.  "Didn't you hear me?  I must have called your name about zillion times."

Hank shuffled a stack of papers while he regained his composure.  "What did you want anyway?"

"Roy's on the phone."

"Oh.  Okay.  Thanks."  Hank picked up the receiver.  "Roy?  How is he?"

The nosy firefighter was disappointed when Captain Stanley waved him off.  He knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but he couldn't contain his natural curiosity.  Hovering outside the doorway, he overheard Cap's end of the conversation.

"Uh huh.  Yeah.  No improvement, huh?  Do the docs know what it is?  How long will that take?  Surgery?  Is it that serious?  When will they know for sure?"

Chet couldn't believe his ears.  But...but...Johnny seemed okay when they argued over the last cup of coffee, and when he teased him about smelling like a skunk...and when...  Oh, crap.  Chet cursed himself for his earlier behavior.  If he hadn't been so busy picking on his favorite pigeon, he might have noticed something was seriously wrong.  And what if Johnny didn't come out of this okay?  How could he live with himself if he didn't get a chance to make amends?

The fact that he was listening in on his captain's conversation finally pricked Chet's conscience.  Grandma Kelly always told him no good ever came from minding other people's business.  She swore up and down that eavesdropping and gossiping were deadly sins, although she never could remember exactly which commandments they violated.  Chet started to turn away, but decided that since he had already imperiled his immortal soul, he might as well hear the rest of the conversation.  He cupped his hand around his ear to amplify the sound of his captain's voice.

"Roy, wish I could," Hank lamented.  "I had a heck of a time finding one paramedic to cover the rest of the shift.  Sorry, pal.  I'll keep working on it.  Yeah.  Chuck Baker will be here in about an hour.  Sure.  I'll have him drive the squad over there and meet up with you.  Uh huh.  As long as you stay available from Rampart.  Okay.  Keep in touch."

Chet slinked away from the doorway before he heard the receiver being placed back in its cradle.  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he wondered what he could do to help set things right.  As he absent-mindedly fingered a small metal disk, a possibility crossed his mind.  He emptied the contents of his pocket, picking through the coins until he retrieved the desired object.  Chet reverently kissed it, and asked the Blessed Virgin for her intercession.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Time ceased to hold any significance for Johnny.  An unending parade of doctors, nurses and technicians methodically poked and prodded his half-paralyzed body.  Somewhere in the recesses of his memory he knew it was necessary, but in his weakened state, the procedures only served to further frustrate and humiliate him.  Each question or test provided another opportunity for his body to demonstrate its cruel betrayal.  Did he know his name?  Did he know where he was?  Did he know what year it was?  Could he open and close his eyes?  Could he smile and show them his teeth?  Could he touch his finger to his nose?  Johnny wanted to scream that if he could do all of this stuff, he wouldn't be here in the first place.

At least the CT scan afforded him a brief reprieve.  All he had to do was simply lie there on the cold table and let the machine do all of the work.  Maybe he could even sneak in a quick nap as an escape from the frightening reality.

The drugs they had given him in the emergency room had finally stabilized his vital signs, and his heart didn't feel like it was going to pound out of his chest.  Now his head was pounding.  Johnny almost laughed at the irony.  Why couldn't his headache have been on the numb side of his body?

Then again, what if the pain extended to the opposite side and he couldn't feel it?  What if he was in worse shape than he thought?  Would he be able to communicate any sinister symptoms before it was too late?  Would he wind up as a vegetable...or worse?

His stomach contracted violently, forcing its meager contents back up his esophagus.  Anticipating the inevitable, Johnny tried to turn sideways so he wouldn't choke on his vomit, but his partially immobilized body and the CT machine impeded his movements.  This unexpected development terrified Johnny, and he weakly cried out.  Could the medical personnel understand his garbled pleas for assistance above the roar of the machine?  Would anyone notice his distress in time?

Suddenly, Johnny lost his battle to keep the nausea at bay.  Warm acrid emesis forced its way past his throat and filled his mouth with an alarming intensity.  In a moment of blind panic, Johnny sharply inhaled while he lost his tenuous control.  A burning sensation tore through his throat and chest as the room erupted into flurry of activity.  Then, Johnny lapsed into welcome oblivion.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

In the privacy of the senior physician's office, Brackett and Early reviewed the plethora of lab reports.  The data was confusing at best.  Although some of the values fell outside normal parameters, they did not provide any definitive clues.  Brackett studied Johnny's CT films, practically willing himself to find some mystical and magical explanation for the paramedic's condition.  Rubbing the slight stubble on his chin, he deferred to his colleague.  "Joe, you're the neurology expert.  What do you think?"

Early adjusted his reading glasses as he studied the films.  "Looks like we can safely rule out a tumor or subarachnoid hemorrhage.  It could be a small bleed or other vascular abnormality, like a stroke or TIA.  Unfortunately, if this is a stroke, a CT scan might not detect any changes for a couple of days."

Picking up the chart, Brackett reviewed the printouts again.  "He's definitely running a low-grade infection of some type, but there's no evidence of central nervous system inflammation.  In any event, we need to start Johnny on a broad-spectrum antibiotic as soon as possible, especially since he aspirated some gunk into his lungs.  He doesn't need a case of pneumonia of top of everything else."

The white-haired physician agreed.  "His clotting factors are off, but they're consistent with the amount of acetylsalicylic acid on the tox screen."  Early frowned.  "It's not like Johnny to take any kind of medication willingly unless he's miserable.  Something was clearly bothering him to have that much aspirin in his system."

"Uh huh.  And since Johnny has a tendency to downplay symptoms..."

"He could have had a headache for days, and didn't bother to mention that to Roy," Early finished.

Brackett moved several medical journals to the side of his desk, clearing a space for him to sit down.  "The only kink in that theory is that Johnny didn't have a headache when he presented in the ER."

"Not necessarily.  Since his level of consciousness fluctuates and his processing is slow, it's possible he either didn't understand when we asked about it the first time, or with his speech impairment, he wasn't able to clearly articulate his response.  Whatever the case, we know he has a hell of a headache now."  He tenderly touched his jaw.  "At least his reflexes on the left side are still intact."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Brackett smiled.  "Johnny did object rather strenuously to the NG tube.  Obviously he didn't agree with our professional judgment.  But since the Phenergan wasn't helping, we couldn't run the risk of him aspirating a second time."

"You're preaching to the choir, Kel.  I'm the one he puked on, remember?"  Early's demeanor suddenly became somber again.  "In light of the inconclusive findings, our best bet is to perform a cerebral arteriogram."

"If surgery is indicated, the prolonged clotting time is going to complicate matters."

"Yeah, I know.  But hopefully it won't come to that.  It's possible his symptoms can be successfully managed with medication."  Early rolled his head back and forth to alleviate the tension in his neck.  "I'll give Howard a call to set up the arteriogram.  After the incident in the CT room, I'd like to sit in on this one."

Brackett grimly nodded in agreement.  If anyone exemplified Murphy's Law, it was Johnny Gage.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Alone in the doctors' lounge, Roy worried about what the arteriogram might reveal.  The infernal waiting was driving him insane.  Given Johnny's propensity to develop complications, it wasn't outside the realm of possibilities for something to go seriously awry during the invasive procedure.  Early had explained that while the arteriogram itself was risky, it was a necessary evil.  If Johnny had suffered an aneurysm or other vascular abnormality, he might need emergency brain surgery.  Roy shuddered as he replayed the words in his mind.  Brain surgery.  It seemed so...drastic...so scary...so sudden.

Had it only been this morning when he regaled Johnny with his vacation woes, or listened to him rant about everything under the sun?  Now the familiar banter seemed like a distant memory.  Under the harsh glare of the emergency room lights, Johnny had looked frighteningly frail and lifeless.  Roy quickly corrected himself.  No, not lifeless.  He was merely abnormally still, an unnatural state of being for his highly energetic partner.  What if the paralysis was permanent?  Johnny was such a vibrant person.  Would he be able to accept the physical limitations?  Or even worse, what if Johnny didn't make it this time?  What if Johnny's proverbial nine lives had finally run out?

Roy was suddenly struck by an irrational sense of guilt for already entertaining worst-case scenarios, as if his gloomy thoughts could adversely affect Johnny's prognosis.  He searched for another housecleaning project to keep his mind from dwelling on unpleasant matters.  Thus far, he had cleared the refrigerator of any food items that were mutating into life forms, sorted the impressive collection of medical journals into neat little piles according to publication names and dates, reorganized the cabinets so that similar items were grouped together, cleaned the countertops and washed at least a dozen coffee cups that had been defiled by the foul-tasting decaffeinated beverage.  All of the abandoned cups had been filled to the brim with various hues of brown liquid.  Obviously the emergency room staff didn't care for vile brew, either.  When the janitor made his rounds earlier, Roy was almost tempted to beg the elderly gentleman into letting him mop the floor.  Chuck Baker, his temporary partner, joked that watching Roy clean the unofficial waiting room was more tiring than battling the fierce blaze at Laurel Canyon last week.  Roy shot him a baleful glare that would have reduced lesser men to a heap of ashes.  In the interest of self-preservation, Chuck made a hasty retreat, saying that he preferred to wait in a less stressful environment...like one of the trauma rooms.

Placing his hands on his hips, Roy surveyed the cluttered doctors' lounge.  He didn't know where to start.  There were so many tasks that needed to be done.  Okay, to be fair, the only need was to stop obsessing about his partner's condition and his perceived inadequacies as a friend and paramedic.  He was so focused on peeking in cabinets and drawers that he didn't hear anyone enter the room and walk up behind him.

"Roy?"

The paramedic reflexively clutched his chest as he spun around.  "Chet, don't sneak up on me like that.  You nearly gave me a heart attack."

Chet's mouth dropped open at the eerie sense of déjà vu.  "Sneak up?  I called your name three times!"  Didn't he already have this conversation with Captain Stanley?  He was beginning to suspect he was trapped in a Twilight Zone episode.  He held up his palms in a placating gesture.  "Sorry, man.  I didn't mean to scare you to death."  He nervously bit his lip while he summoned his nerve to ask about the purpose for his visit.  "How is Johnny doing?"

"He's stable, not much change.  They've done a bunch of tests, but they haven't pinpointed the problem yet.  Now Johnny is undergoing a procedure called a cerebral arteriogram to see if the blood vessels in his brain have ruptured or have become blocked."

"Is he going to need surgery?"

Roy rocked back and forth on his heels.  "It depends on the results of this test.  Early said it's possible Johnny can be treated with medication."  Chagrined by his earlier outburst, Roy apologized.  "Sorry about jumping all over you.  The waiting is driving me crazy, and I'm dragging everyone else along for the ride.  I scared Chuck off about fifteen minutes ago."

Trying to lighten the mood, Chet struck a comical pose, jutting his jaw forward and stroking his mustache in a manner reminiscent of silent movie villains.  "Nah, I wouldn't worry about it.  When I passed by the emergency room desk, I think I spotted a couple of nurses getting ready to hang themselves with IV tubing.  Chuck is boring everyone to death with his latest batch of baby pictures."

Grateful for the diversion, Roy visibly relaxed.  "I know what you mean.  He said they shoot about five or six rolls of film a week."

Chet sat down at the table and reached for the saltshaker.  "You'd think the novelty would have worn off by now.  Good grief, it's their fourth kid.  Most people I know slack off on that scrapbook thing after a while."  Out of habit, Chet loosened the lid and set the saltshaker back on the sparkling clean tabletop.  "Shoot, in the Kelly clan, the first kid gets all the good pictures.  The second one might get a few snapshots of the more important milestones, like baptism or confirmation.  And if you're later in the pecking order, the first time you see a camera is when you pose for your school pictures.  My poor cousin Maggie was the youngest of seven children.  When she was about ten, she asked her mom why there weren't any pictures of her in the family photo albums.  Aunt Rosie must have cried for days.  It wasn't intentional or anything.  It's just that in large families, it's easy to get lost in the shuffle."

Roy stopped pacing long enough to join his colleague at the table.  Chet's inane chatter was helping to restore a fragile sense of normalcy, and for a fleeting moment, comforting images of hearth and home replaced morbid ruminations about his partner.  Roy felt strangely disloyal for allowing his thoughts to drift from Johnny's uncertain future, but he desperately needed something to cling to during this time of crisis.

Resting his elbows on the table, Chet leaned forward.  "Roy, do you believe in miracles?  You know, like when Jesus healed the lepers and gave sight to the blind?  That sort of thing?"

"Yeah, I suppose so."

That wasn't the answer the mustachioed man had expected.  "You're not sure?"

Roy shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  "I believe they still happen, but maybe it's not always as obvious as it was back in those days, or we attribute cures to modern medicine instead of giving God all the credit.  Or maybe I just don't understand how it all works.  Like why do some people deserve miracles, and other ones don't?"  Roy looked upwards as if expecting a bolt of lightning to strike him for questioning the Almighty.  When he realized he wasn't going to be instantaneously burned to a crisp or turned into a pillar of salt for his remark, Roy felt emboldened to bring up a subject that had been bothering him lately.  "Remember last month when that drunk driver crashed his car into that little blonde girl's bedroom?"

"Yeah."

Lest his friend see the tears forming in his eyes, Roy turned his head.  "Her name was Susanna.  She was only four years old, asleep in her own bed when that guy plowed into her room.  The whole time we worked to extricate her from the wreckage, Susanna never cried or seemed scared.  I thought my heart was going to break when she sang 'Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam' just before she started bleeding out."  He discretely wiped the corner of his eye and cleared his throat.  "Then during the next shift, some druggie overdoses on LSD and jumps off a fourth story balcony and lives to see another day so he can drop acid again.  I don't get it.  She was a sweet, innocent child, and he was a junkie with a criminal history.  Why did he get a second chance and she didn't?  It doesn't seem fair."

Chet fought back his own tears as a painful memory bubbled to the surface.  "When I was in third grade, my best friend died of leukemia.  Frankie was the coolest guy in the world.  I don't know why he bothered to hang out with someone like me.  He was funny, smart, athletic, popular -- everything I wasn't.  Frankie always made me feel about ten feet tall."  He fumbled with the saltshaker before he resumed his sad tale.  "After he passed away, I was angry with God.  Why Frankie?  He was such a good kid.  Everyone loved him.  It didn't seem right that God would take Frankie instead of some sleazebag that no one cared about.  One day when I was bawling my eyes out and feeling sorry for myself, Grandma Kelly tried to console me.  She said Frankie had such a pure soul, that God must have thought heaven would be a happier place with him there.  So God took him to his eternal reward, so he could play and sing with the angels for the rest of eternity.  Grandma Kelly believed that some people received the miracle of healing because God had more work for them to do here on earth, or maybe they needed another chance to get right with Him.  I don't know if any of that's true or not, but it made me feel better."

Reaching into his pocket, Chet retrieved a small silver medal.  "You'll probably laugh, but I prayed after you left.  I'm not sure why I felt I had the right to ask God to do something for me.  It's not like I go around doing Him any big favors.  But I felt so helpless.  I wanted...I needed to do something for Johnny.  So I prayed that he would be okay, and that I could find someone to finish out the rest of my shift."

Because Chet was still dressed in his uniform, the implication of his words took a minute to fully sink in.  "You're not on duty?"

"Nope.  I got Andy Ferguson to cover for me.  He's thinking about buying a house, and wanted to work some overtime.  I thought that since Cap couldn't find a replacement for you, someone should stay here with Johnny in case you guys got called out."

Roy was deeply touched by the firefighter's unselfish act.  "I appreciate that, Chet.  I know Johnny does, too."

Chet held up the shiny object in his hand for Roy's inspection.  "Grandma Kelly gave me this St. Jude medal when I was in high school.  He's the patron saint of lost causes."  He blushed slightly.  "I know this comes as no big surprise, but I was a real handful.  I was always getting in trouble for doing something stupid.  Everyone was convinced I'd never amount to anything.  My grandmother was the only person who had any confidence in me.  When I'd ask her why she was so sure I'd turn out okay, especially when there wasn't any proof I was mending my ways, she'd always quote one of her favorite Bible verses:  'Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.'" He grinned slyly, "And this time, I'm positive it was the Good Book that said that, not Ben Franklin."

Pointing toward his heart, Chet continued.  "I don't know how to explain this, but I have a feeling deep down in here that everything is going to work out for Johnny."

Skeptical of the firefighter's claim, Roy sighed loudly.  "I don't know, Chet.  He's in pretty bad shape."

A ghost of a smile tugged at the other man's lips.  "But isn't that what faith is?  Believing something is going to happen even when it doesn't seem possible?"

While Roy considered the semi-rhetorical question, a scrub-suit clad Early entered the room.  Both men immediately rose to their feet in anticipation of the long-awaited report, searching the doctor's face for any clue about the results.  Before they had an opportunity to commence their interrogation, Early motioned for them to sit back down.

Roy was the first to find his voice.  "Doc, how did it go?"

The physician ran his fingers through his silvery hair.  "The arteriogram revealed severe vasospasms and slight edema of the surrounding tissue on the left side.  We immediately initiated treatment, but it's too early to tell if the neurological deficits will be permanent or not."

Although Roy held the doctor in high esteem, he was rapidly losing his patience with the diagnostic process.  "So did he have a stroke or what?"

The corners of Early’s mouth turned slightly upward, although it was difficult to discern whether the expression was meant to convey a grimace or a smile.  "No," he finally said.  "Johnny is suffering from a hemiplegic migraine, although many of the symptoms are similar to a stroke or transient ischemic attack.  It's a very rare type of migraine variant characterized by unilateral weakness or paralysis."

Chet looked baffled.  "I don't understand.  I thought only dames got migraines.  How did this happen to Johnny?  Does this mean he's going to be okay?"

Early joined the men at the table.  Resting his elbows on the surface, he explained the situation.  "Contrary to popular opinion, men can get migraines.  From what we've been able to determine, several factors probably contributed to the vasospasms, such as heat exhaustion, excessive caffeine intake, sleep deprivation, etc.  A vasospasm occurs when a blood vessel narrows or constricts, thus impeding or completely cutting off the flow of blood.  If the vessels can open up enough to re-establish an adequate blood supply, the paralysis and speech problems could dissipate fairly quickly.  If not, then the brain tissue starves to death and the damage becomes permanent."

"When will you know for sure?"

"Most hemiplegic migraines resolve within sixty to ninety minutes.  However, in Johnny's case, the swelling makes his recovery more unpredictable.  It may be several hours before we could begin to see any significant changes."  Early steepled his fingers under his chin.  "We're going to transfer Johnny to the neuro step-down unit and keep him closely monitored.  We'll evaluate his neurological function every two hours and repeat his EEG later this evening.  If there's any change, we'll reassess his treatment options."

Roy wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or not.  Someone once told him that the most important step in any solution was identifying the problem, but such trite phrases offered little comfort at the moment.  Earlier that morning, Johnny's biggest challenge was finding a cup of real coffee.  Now he was facing the terrible possibility of irreversible brain damage.  Rising from his chair, Roy massaged the aching muscles in his neck.  "Doc, can we see Johnny before he's moved upstairs?"

Technically it was against the rules, but Early understood how important the request was to both men.  "Sure, I'll sneak you guys into the recovery area for a couple of minutes."

Sensing that the paramedic needed to see Johnny alone, Chet pressed his St. Jude medal into Roy's hand as he mumbled his apologies.  "Hey, man.  I just remembered that I have to run a quick errand.  Would you please give this to Johnny for me?  He needs it more than I do."

"Aren't you coming?"

"Nah.  Not right now.  I gotta go talk to someone for a few minutes.  I'll meet you upstairs as soon as I'm done."

No more words were necessary as the men exchanged knowing glances.  Chet was going to the chapel to pray for his fallen pigeon.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

In the dim light of the neuro step-down unit, the tall raven-haired nurse set her patient's chart on the small bedside table.  She hated to wake him.  Johnny looked so peaceful, in spite of the monitoring wires and numerous tubes invading his body.  But orders were orders.  Early wanted full neuro checks performed every two hours, whether Johnny was enthusiastic about the idea or not.  Julie lightly rested her hand on his arm.  "Mr. Gage, can you wake up for me?"  When Johnny didn't respond to her request, she raised her voice slightly.  "Mr. Gage, it's time to wake up."

His mind still clouded by sleep and a narcotic-induced haze, Johnny muttered his emphatic protest.  "Go 'way."

Julie's face brightened at the improvement.  Those were the first intelligible words he had uttered since he was transferred to the unit.  When gentle prodding failed to rouse him from his semi-conscious state, Julie resorted to more drastic measures by pressing on his nail beds.

The result was instantaneous, and Johnny cursed at the persistent nurse.  "Shit, that hurt!"

Julie managed to stifle a giggle.  "Well, that was definitely clear as a bell."

Even in his drugged state, Johnny recognized the significance of the development.  If his speech had cleared up, had the paralysis done so too?  His eyelids immediately snapped open as he struggled to shake off the sedating effects of the Demerol.  The overhead light seemed blindingly bright to him.  He closed his eyes and turned his head toward the melodic voice, but the slight movement exacerbated his pounding headache and vertigo.  "My head hurts," he complained.

"We'll get you something for that in a few minutes.  First I need to you to do a few things for me, okay?"

This time, Johnny merely grunted his acknowledgement.  His compliance was a necessary evil.  The sooner he got the prescribed neuro check out of the way, the sooner he could get some good drugs and drift back into a relatively painless slumber.  More importantly, he might find out if reluctant muscles could be commanded to function again.

After she asked him the requisite orientation questions, Julie slipped her long slender fingers into the palms of his hands.  "Mr. Gage, can you squeeze my fingers?"

To his relief, Johnny could feel his right hand weakly close around the proffered digits.  The extremity tingled and felt sluggish, but nonetheless, it moved.  Johnny was paradoxically elated and frightened by the improvement.  His positive nature wanted to interpret this small victory as a precursor to a complete recovery.  Yet, his superstitious streak was afraid such wishful thinking would jinx him.  But as Julie completed the examination, Johnny couldn't help but be encouraged by his progress.  If moving didn't make his head throb so much, he'd pat himself on the back in celebration of his accomplishment.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

By the next morning, Johnny's neurological responses continued to improve.  However, it wasn't yet clear if he would regain complete function on his right side.  Because the vasospasms had lasted for so long, there was a concern that healthy brain tissue could have been permanently compromised.  Only time would tell.

Unfortunately, the wicked headache and vertigo showed no signs of abating.  And while the dreaded nasogastric tube irritated his already sore throat, at least Johnny wasn't puking up everything except his toenails.  That was something to be grateful for.

As Early finished the latest comprehensive neurological evaluation, he stuffed the medical testing paraphernalia back into his black doctor's bag.  In deference to his patient's extreme photophobia, the neurosurgeon turned off the overhead light while he scribbled in Johnny's chart.  Early peered over his reading glasses as he addressed his miserable patient.  "You're making a lot of progress.  We'll continue the IV Cardizem and Demerol until your headache can be managed with oral medications."

Johnny cautiously nodded his approval.  "How much longer?"

"It's hard to tell.  It could be anywhere from a few hours to several days.  Migraines are notoriously unpredictable."

In an almost berating tone, Johnny grumbled.  "I still can't believe I'm here for a stupid headache.  It's so embarrassing.  I always thought neurotic chicks were usually more prone to migraines.  Oh, man.  The guys are never going to let me hear the end of this."

Early finished his notes with a flourish of his ballpoint pen.  "It's a common misconception that men don't suffer from migraines.  Different types of headaches tend to affect different groups of people.  For example, men are about six times more likely to suffer from cluster headaches."  Setting the chart at the foot of the bed, Early propped his arms on the metal railing.  "Besides, the key word is 'usually'.  Statistics can be a matter of perspective.  Some forms of birth control are 98% effective.  But if a woman falls in that other 2%, she's 100% pregnant."

"So what you're saying is, it doesn't matter what the statistics are when it happens to you, right?"

"Something like that," Early replied.  "I started having migraines during my first year of college, so I sympathize with you about the stereotype.  It's hard to overcome old prejudices."

The admission triggered something in Johnny's memory.  "You still get them, don't you?"

"Occasionally.  Over the years I've learned what tends to cause the headaches, and what I can do to help prevent them."

"You mean this could happen again?"

Early's mouth twitched.  "You don't have a history of vascular headaches, and hemiplegic migraines are extremely rare, especially in adults.  But I'd like to do a headache work up in the next day or so.  It's possible you've had migraine variants in the past and didn't recognize them as such."

Johnny experimentally flexed his newly awakened fingers.  "Have you figured out what caused all of this trouble in the first place?"

"You basically had a stroke of bad luck.  Over the past couple of weeks, your body has taken a great deal of abuse.  You've been working a lot of overtime in the sweltering heat, you haven't been getting enough sleep and you've skipped way too many meals.  On top of that, you've been drinking excessive amounts of coffee.  Not only is caffeine a central nervous system stimulant, it's a natural diuretic and vasoconstrictor.  Between the heat exhaustion and your coffee intake, your blood vessels were alternately dilating and constricting, thus setting the stage for the vasospasms.  When you weren't able to get your caffeine fix yesterday morning, your body went into physical withdrawal.  That and the noxious smell from the trash dumpster probably pushed you over the edge."  In a firm but compassionate manner, Early chastised the young paramedic.  "I know you were exhausted, but you shouldn't rely on caffeine to function, especially when you're wearing turnouts in one-hundred degree weather for hours on end.  No wonder you were brought in for dehydration the day before.  You should drink water or non-decaffeinated beverages to keep from seriously screwing up your electrolytes."

"But I've done all of that stuff before and I never got a migraine," Johnny protested.  "Why now?  Am I going to have to worry about this happening again every time I work an extra shift or fight fires in hot, humid weather?"

Early understood his patient's concern.  Each time he recovered from a cycle of vicious migraines, it was a long time before the fear of a recurrence subsided.  "Johnny, if this isn't an isolated event, you can't live in fear that another debilitating migraine is always around the corner.  There are several things you can do to help prevent headaches, like eliminating certain foods from your diet and getting enough sleep.  Also, there are medications you can take at the earliest onset of symptoms or on a prophylactic basis."

Gathering Johnny's chart, Early patted him on the leg.  "When you're feeling better, I'll bring you some articles about migraine headaches.  Then we can discuss your options, okay?  In the meantime, if you're still progressing nicely when I check in on you this evening, maybe we can pull the NG tube and see how you do on a liquid diet."

Somehow, the thought of lukewarm chicken broth and semi-congealed Jell-O seemed oddly appealing.  It should help to soothe his sore throat.  And with a little bit of luck, he might even be able to con one of the nurses into bringing him a cup of strong black coffee, preferably without the good doctor finding out about it.  It never hurt to dream.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Three days later, Johnny's condition had improved dramatically.  He still had some trouble with his coordination due to the residual vertigo, but he was confident that would clear up in another week or two.  Now that the right-sided paralysis was nothing more than a bad memory, Johnny was willing to suffer a minor inconvenience or two.

Alas, there was one inconvenience he didn't consider quite so minor.  No matter how many times Johnny had been a patient at Rampart, he had never learned to accept the inevitable snags in hospital bureaucracy, especially when it involved his discharge from the facility.  Doggone it, if his doctor said he was ready to go home, he should be allowed to leave as soon as possible.  Preferably before he picked up an exotic nosocomial infection or other malady that would prolong his confinement.

Slouched in an uncomfortable vinyl chair, Roy re-read a magazine while Johnny expressed his displeasure about the flaws in the hospital's discharge procedures.  The longer his release was delayed, the more he balked.  Johnny pounded on the mattress while he vented his frustration.

"I don't believe this!" Johnny moaned.  "What's taking them so long?  Why am I being held hostage?  It's not like I have to have any more tests done.  Dr. Early signed off on my paperwork at 7:30 this morning, and now it's almost 11:00.  Why won't they just give me the lousy prescription and I can have it filled at Walgreens?  Did the pharmacist already go to lunch?  And how come I can't leave until one of the nurses schedules my follow-up appointment?  I shouldn't be forced to stick around for hours while someone arranges a date and time that isn't going to be convenient for me anyway.  Why can't I just drop by the ER and see Early?  And I'll bet since I'm supposed to go home, the dietary department won't send up a lunch tray for me if I'm still here by then.  Shoot, I'll probably starve to death.  Even a bowl of green Jell-O is better than nothing.  I wouldn't be surprised if I'm still here by suppertime, too.  Of course, they won't send up a tray then either.  Oh yeah, and another thing..."

Roy was delighted to hear his partner rant about his predicament.  Johnny's woeful diatribe was music to his ears.  Until a few days ago, Roy never thought he'd miss the sweet sound of his partner's petty complaints or verbal gymnastics.  But when the doctors first thought that Johnny might have suffered a stroke or other debilitating brain disorder, Roy was afraid he'd never be able to converse with his best friend again.  During those agonizing hours while the doctors performed a vast array of tests, Roy's mind was cluttered with at least a hundred things he wanted to talk about.  Now that the crisis had passed, he couldn't think of anything interesting to say.  Instead, he merely pointed toward a thick manila envelope.  "What's that?"

Startled by the abrupt change in topic, Johnny stammered.  "It's...um...oh...it's some stuff Dr. Early brought for me to read about migraine headaches."  Blessed with a new subject, Johnny launched into a new tirade.  "Did you know there are several different kinds of migraine headaches?"  Johnny held up his fingers as he ticked off the classifications.  "There's common, classic, cluster, complicated, basilar artery, ophthalmoplegic, vestibular, hemiplegic, migraine equivalents and benign exertional headaches.  Dr. Early said I've probably had migraine variants for years, but because they were atypical, I probably attributed the symptoms to other causes at the time.  Like when I'd throw up for a couple of days and assumed it was a stomach bug, or got seasick during a rescue, or even when I used to get carsick as a kid.  Stuff like that."

"You got carsick as a kid?"

"Yeah.  Dr. Early said that was typical of vestibular migraines.  It has something to do with how a person looks at the horizon.  Did you know that passengers view passing scenery differently than the driver does?  The best solution is to let the migraine sufferer drive.  Which reminds me, I was thinking..."

"Oh, yeah?"  Roy could already see where this conversation was heading.  He was amused by Johnny's efforts to make a potential liability work in his favor, but nonetheless managed to keep a straight face.

"Yeah.  I was thinking that maybe I should start driving the squad from now on.  There's no sense in taking any unnecessary chances.  I know you wouldn't want me to get another bad headache and end up in the hospital again."

"I see," Roy answered noncommittally.  "Is there anything else you can do to prevent migraines?"

Johnny was less enthusiastic about the other possibilities.  "Oh, avoid or limit certain foods, eat at regular intervals so my blood sugar doesn't drop too low, get plenty of sleep, etc.  But Roy, it's like that story Goldilocks and the Three Bears.  For instance, too much caffeine can give you a headache, but so can not having enough if you're used to a certain amount.  The same thing with sleep.  It's gotta be juuuuust right.  Then there's the medication.  Dr. Early wrote a prescription for something called Cafergot.  I'm supposed to take it at the earliest onset of symptoms.  If that doesn't work, he wants me to come to the ER and they'll give me a shot of D.H.E. or some kind of narcotic cocktail to help me sleep off the headache.  Then if I start getting migraines on a regular basis, Early will prescribe a low dose of Inderal to take prophylactically.  Hopefully it won't get to that point, though.  Man, I'm not sure the side effects are worth it.  Inderal can cause depression, insomnia, fatigue, hypotension, bradycardia and even impotence!"

Roy's face turned beet red.  If the situation were reversed, he wasn't sure he would have expressed a concern about that particular side effect.  Setting his magazine on top of Johnny's packed duffel bag, Roy decided to stick to safer topics.  "So you really think driving more often would solve part of your problem, huh?"

Johnny enthusiastically agreed.  "Yep.  Absolutely.  No doubt about it."

"And what if I don't concur with this treatment protocol?"

The dark-haired man grinned evilly.  "I know all of the words to Bingo.  I even know when to clap."

Roy cringed at the memory of his ill-fated vacation.  "Um...maybe we can work something out."

"I figured as much," Johnny declared triumphantly.

A glimmer of reflected light bounced off the bed's headboard as sunlight streamed through the window.  Roy pointed toward the shiny piece of silver.  "Hey, don't forget to take that home."

"What?"

"The medal that Chet gave you."

Johnny slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.  "Oh, man.  Thanks for reminding me."  He peeled the object from the headboard and discarded the clear hypoallergenic tape in the wastebasket.  Johnny appeared thoughtful as he gazed at the St. Jude medal.  "I still can't believe Chet gave this to me.  It was a present from his Grandma Kelly.  I don't feel right keeping something that's so important to him.  Maybe I ought to give it back."

Roy closed his friend's hand around the silver disk.  "Chet really wanted you to have this.  I think it would hurt his feelings if you returned it.  He knows you're not Catholic, but he hoped you'd accept it in the spirit that it was intended."

Johnny was genuinely puzzled.  "What do you mean?"

"Did he ever tell you the story behind it?"

"Not exactly.  He just told me that his grandmother gave it to him when he was a teenager."

Glossing over some of the details, Roy tried to explain.  "When Chet was going through a rough time, his grandmother thought he needed tangible reassurance that things were going to be okay.  His Grandma Kelly gave him the St. Jude medal as a token of faith.  In his religion, St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.  Anyway, Chet said that even though he doesn't go to church as often as he used to, he still finds hope and strength in its symbols and rituals.  When you got sick, he wanted to do something that would give you the same kind of comfort.  That's when he realized he didn't know anything about your beliefs, and he felt pretty embarrassed that he had never made an effort to learn.  So Chet decided to stick with what he knew for the time being.  He hoped you wouldn't mind."

Stunned by the revelation, Johnny looked at the religious medal again.  "Wow.  I had no idea.  But it still doesn't seem right keeping something that was so important to him.  Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless I could give him the medicine bundle my grandfather helped me make when I was a kid.  You know, like a trade.  We could even compare notes about our customs and beliefs."

"I think he'd like that."  Ashamed that he didn't know much more about Johnny's spiritual life than Chet did, Roy slumped in his chair and picked at an imaginary hangnail.  "Maybe we could get together sometime and do the same thing."

"Sure, that would be great," Johnny replied.  His stomach growled, and he automatically looked at his watch.  "Hey, Roy?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember that doughnut shop we passed just before our last run on Monday?"

"Uh huh."

"Why don't we swing back by on the way home?  I'll buy."

Roy pretended to be shocked.  "You?  Spend money?"

Johnny laughed.  "Yes, me.  I figure since I probably shaved about ten years off of your life the other day, it's the least I can do."

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of Johnny's nurse.  The young woman looked absolutely frazzled as she pushed an unwieldy wheelchair through the doorway.  Her nurse's cap was slightly askew, and long wisps of her auburn hair cascaded onto her face.  Tucking an errant lock behind her ear, she apologized for the delay.  "I'm sorry for running so late.  It's been an absolute zoo this morning."

His earlier complaints now magically forgotten, Johnny displayed his most charming crooked grin for her benefit.  "No problem, Claire."

She handed Johnny a small white paper sack and a handful of paperwork.  "Here's your prescription and your discharge instructions.  If you'll just sign this, I can wheel you out of here."

In a moment of whimsy, Roy couldn't help himself.  "Johnny, that doesn't sound like a good idea since you might be prone to motion sickness when someone else does the driving.  Maybe you should wheel yourself over to the patient pickup area while I go get the car.  And you'd be doing Claire a huge favor.  On such a busy day, she would probably appreciate having one less task to perform."

Johnny's expression was absolutely priceless as he realized his dilemma.  If he let Claire take him downstairs, he would sabotage his argument for driving the squad.  On the other hand, if he refused her offer, he might not be able to finagle a date with Rampart's newest nurse.  Oh, well.  There would be other opportunities to persuade his partner of the merits of his position.  Right now, he had to seize the moment.  Carpe diem and all that.  "Uh, it's okay.  It's not that far.  I'm sure I'll be able to manage.  And since it's hospital policy, I wouldn't want to get Claire into any trouble."

"No, of course not."  Roy affectionately slapped his friend on the back.  "I'll see you in a few minutes, partner."

Roy fished his car keys out of his pocket as he turned toward the door.  In that moment, any lingering fears or doubts about Johnny's health suddenly vanished.  He felt imbued with an overwhelming sense of peace, and Roy's spirits soared.  Chet had been right all along.  Everything was going to work out just fine.

 

finis

 

Lyrics quoted from:
Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay, by Steve Cropper and Otis Redding, Jr.
Bingo (author unknown, probably to escape the ire of frazzled parents throughout the ages)

Other quotes:
The Holy Bible (King James Version), Hebrews 11:1

 

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Stories by Satchie