Читать книгу The Australian's Desire: Their Lost-and-Found Family / Long-Lost Son: Brand-New Family / A Proposal Worth Waiting For - Lilian Darcy, Lilian Darcy - Страница 12

THE muddle forced them apart. Blushing furiously, Georgie disappeared into the crowd and Alistair let her go. She might be confused but he was even more so.

He fell back to the edge of the crowd and then made his escape.

He wouldn’t go to the reception. He was too … disoriented? Plus he hadn’t been invited. It was one thing to go to the wedding ceremony and sit unnoticed in the back of the church, he thought. Not that he’d been unnoticed, but this was the theoretical etiquette scenario he was talking himself through. It was quite another matter to go to the reception, where he’d be eating food prepared for other guests, mingling with people he didn’t know …

Staying near Georgie.

And that was the deciding factor. As the wedding party had forced them apart, Georgie had paled. She’d looked up at him with such horror that he’d been unable to think what the hell to do.

Maybe he should have taken her aside, tried to discover what the horror was about and see if he could defuse it.

But she’d backed away as if terrified, and he’d thought … well, did he have any reason to inflict himself on her?

‘Yes, because of the way I feel,’ he told himself, battling the fierce wind as he made his way back to the hospital. The wind was blasting so hard against him that it hurt. There was rain just starting, and raindrops so hard that they felt like pellets. But in some strange way it made him feel better. He felt like fighting—but he didn’t know what, and he didn’t know why.

‘If she makes me feel like that then maybe I need to get the hell out of here,’ he muttered, but he knew he couldn’t go back to the States. Not until after Gina’s wedding. Next Saturday.

‘As soon as this wind eases I’ll go down to Cairns and just come back for the wedding.’

That made him feel how?

In control? Maybe, but control was ceasing to seem very important. What seemed important was the way Georgie made him feel. Like there’d been an aching void which he’d suddenly figured could be filled.

He was so confused. He’d go to the hospital. Medicine was a way of burying himself, he thought. It left him in charge of his own world as he tried to fix the messes of everyone else’s world.

He pushed open the nursery door and Charles was there. Charles Wetherby, still in his tuxedo.

‘Why aren’t you at the wedding?’ he asked, and Charles looked up from Megan’s cot and grinned.

‘I’ve done my duty. I gave the bride away and I played the trumpet twice. I’ll put my nose in at the reception later but one of the very few pluses of using a wheelchair is that if you say you need to excuse yourself for a bit, no one ever asks you why.’

‘You were in the wedding procession.’

‘Not me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I hopped it—or wheeled it—out through the priest’s changing room as soon as I finished playing. Not even Sophia saw me sneak away. Oh, Jill and Lily will come and find me soon and drag me back, but for now I’m sticking here. Using an invalid’s prerogative. What’s your excuse?’

‘I wanted to check on Megan.’ But Megan was sleeping soundly and there was no way he was waking her up.

‘Megan is great. Ilse and Herrick have been keeping bedside vigil, but there’s little need. Ilse brought Lizzie through in her wheelchair and she’s had a cuddle. Thanks to you.’ He put out his hand, took Alistair’s and shook it firmly. ‘We’re more grateful than I can say. You know, we could really use a neurologist here. I know we could never match your US salary but …’ He grinned. ‘There may be other compensations. So any time you’re free …’

‘Thanks but, no, thanks.’

‘I’m not asking for an answer yet. Give it more than a cursory thought before you refuse.’ He eyed Alistair speculatively. ‘So why aren’t you at the reception?’

‘I’m not invited.’

‘You know that makes no difference. And Georgie …’

‘Yeah,’ Alistair said heavily. ‘Georgie.’

‘So you’re figuring it out,’ Charles said, straight-faced.

‘Figuring what out?’

‘That you two are dynamite together.’

‘Hey, there’s no way. We’ve only just met.’

‘You met six months ago.’

‘For one night.’

‘And Georg went round with a face like thunder for days. She’d take that bike out on the back roads south of here and come back with her gas tank empty and her bike and herself covered in mud. We had no idea what was driving her …’

‘Her brother had gone.’

‘Yeah, but that had happened before. She’d never been like that.’

‘Charles …’

‘Yeah, I know, butt out.’ His pager sounded and he glanced at it, sighed and smiled. ‘Women. That’s Lily. My foster-daughter. It seems she’s stowed boxes of confetti in the pouch at the back of this chair and my presence is required immediately. Or my confetti.’ He wheeled back from the cot, smiling. ‘OK, I’ll head off to the reception. You know, Georgie isn’t much of a one for parties,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I might send her back to join you.’

‘Don’t.’

‘She got one hefty slug yesterday. As her treating physician, I’ve advised quiet time. Sitting in the nursery with you should be just the ticket.’

‘I’d prefer—’

‘To be alone. Yeah, wouldn’t we all? But look at me. I walked alone and now I have a partner and a child and all the accoutrements of life. They just sneaked up on me while I wasn’t looking, and aren’t I glad they did.’

‘I don’t want—’

‘You don’t know what you don’t want,’ Charles said enigmatically, and wheeled to the door. ‘Keep Megan safe. And do consider my offer.’

‘Offer?’

‘Of a job,’ he said patiently.

‘I don’t want—’

‘You don’t know what you don’t want,’ Charles said again. ‘Think about it some more.’

And he disappeared, leaving Alistair alone with his thoughts.

It was dim and quiet in the ward. Megan was the only child in the nursery. Ilse came in and talked to him for a bit, but her English was poor. She kept throwing longing glances at the desk and finally he checked what she’d been glancing at and grinned. The title might be in German but he could recognise a romantic novel when he saw it.

‘Go back to your book,’ Alistair said, handing it over with good humour.

‘It’s that it’s so quiet,’ she said apologetically, smiling back at him. ‘Herrick is bored as I. Everyone is at the wedding or—how you say?—banging wood on windows. Is there to be a cyclone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think a cyclone will be exciting,’ she said, with the placid pleasure of the young. ‘But you … you need to be at wedding. I can take care of Megan.’

‘I’ll go in a minute.’

‘We have money,’ she said, and she smiled. ‘Ten dollars my Herrick has put.’

‘Ten dollars?’

‘Dr Luke has started … what you call … a book,’ she said. ‘That you and Georgie by the end of the week … Two to one.’

‘What—?’

‘So you need to go back to wedding,’ she said. ‘Because ten dollars is ten dollars and I don’t want my Herrick to lose.’

‘Go back to your romance,’ he growled.

‘And you, too,’ she said, and grinned. ‘Doctor.’ And she buried her nose in her book before he could think of a suitable retort.

Weddings sucked.

Oh, as weddings went, this was a good one. Mike and Emily were a match made in heaven—even cynical Georgie had to admit that. The Pouloses’ over-the-top enthusiasm was infectious, their generosity amazing, and it would be a strange person who couldn’t be drawn into the fun and excitement. Even the wind, blasting around the little hotel in ever-increasing strength, seemed to be there specifically to form a backdrop to the band.

Georgie danced until her legs ached. She threw the odd plate with gusto. She ate a little.

She didn’t want to be there. She wanted to be … with Alistair?

Don’t do it, she told herself fiercely. You don’t do love. You don’t do commitment. You don’t know if he’s a gentle one or a bully, but they always turn out one way or the other in the end, and you know you can’t bear either.

It could be fun to find out.

No.

Her current dance partner, Bruce, the local wildlife officer, spun her in a clumsy attempt at waltzing. She thought back to Alistair’s expert dance techniques and that had her even more confused.

So why don’t you want to find out? she asked herself.

‘Because he’s perfect right now.’

‘Pardon?’ Bruce broke into her conversation and with a start she realised she’d been speaking aloud. ‘Who’s perfect?’

‘Um …’ Not him, that’s for sure, but how to say it and not hurt him? Bruce was a nice guy. One of the gentle ones. Except in the dancing department. Her toes had been squashed more times than she cared to think about. ‘The little girl we operated on this morning,’ she said, and he nodded.

They were approaching the corner of the room. Time for a tricky manoeuvre. Bruce put his tongue out just a little, his forehead puckered in concentration, and he swept her round.

There went another toe.

‘I keep thinking of my work, too,’ Bruce told her. ‘Did you know Big Bertha laid her eggs right near the town bridge? Now I’m gonna have to fence off that part of the river till they hatch. Nothing like the vengeance of a mother croc if anything threatens their kids.’ He paused, deciding to wait while another couple spun past them. ‘Speaking of which … where’s your little tacker? Where’s Max?’

‘With his dad.’

‘Yeah, but Harry said—’

‘Harry shouldn’t have said anything,’ she said curtly.

‘Well, he didn’t, so to speak, but of course he told Grace and Grace told Mrs Poulos and Sophia told me. You know things can’t be kept quiet in this town. Hell, Georg, if you want a hand to hunt the bugger down …’

He would help, too, Georgie thought, forgiving him her squashed toes. This whole town would. They were all there for her.

The music ended. Bruce looked eagerly toward the bar. ‘You want a drink, Georg?’

‘No. Um, my face is hurting a bit. I might go home,’ she said.

‘There’s still the speeches.’

‘No, I think I’ll go.’

‘Alistair’s back there, is he?’

She took a deep breath. They knew. Of course, the town knew. Any hint of gossip was around the town practically before it happened.

‘I’m going home to bed,’ she said with an attempt at dignity.

‘Yeah?’ He grinned. ‘But I was asking—’

‘I know what you were asking. Don’t.’

‘Course I won’t. OK, I’ll be off and find myself a beer. You don’t want a ride home?’

‘No.’

‘Good, ‘cos this is a great party. See ya,’ he said with his accustomed good humour. ‘But, you know, I’ve laid money the other way, so I’d prefer it if you could keep away from Carmichael. Ten quid’s worth keeping.’

She turned around and Alistair was there.

‘Hey,’ Bruce said cheerfully. ‘She was just going home to bed and you. Seems she doesn’t have to.’ He gave Georgie a friendly push toward Alistair, chuckled and left them to it.

The band started again. Fast swing.

‘Hi,’ Alistair said. ‘Would you like to dance?’

‘Dancing with you is dangerous.’

‘I know,’ he said, and he smiled. ‘We both know. But what’s life if we can’t live dangerously?’ And suddenly she had no choice at all. Alistair was tugging her into a rumba and she simply let herself go.

There was nothing like dancing with an expert. There was nothing like dancing with Alistair.

Dancing was wonderful.

Georgie’s mother had loved dancing. From her tired, life-battered mother, dancing was the last thing anyone might expect, but May had loved it. She’d given up on hoping for dancing skill—or even interest—from the various no-hoper men she’d ended up with, but as a toddler Georgie had learned to be her mother’s partner. When things had got too ghastly she’d learned to turn on the radio and plead with her mother to dance.

In the end illness and poverty had taken the dancing out of her, but May had left her daughter with a legacy she loved.

And Alistair’s skill matched her own.

They danced like competition dancers. Every move he made she knew and matched and melded with. They didn’t speak. She was laughing, abandoning herself to the joy of the dance, every fibre of her being responding to his.

Others on the dance floor were falling back, clapping in time, cheering. She was hardly aware of it. She loved it. She loved …

No. She didn’t love … anything. Just the dance …

The music ended. She was exhausted, having danced to her limit, laughing up at him while the room erupted in cheers.

‘Where did you learn to dance like that?’ she demanded.

‘My dad insisted on dance lessons when I was a kid,’ he confessed, smiling, and he knew she loved it as much as he did. ‘Pretty silly, eh?’

‘Not silly at all,’ she said. ‘We ought to have introduced your dad to my mum.’

‘And added a few more complications to our lives?’

Her smile faded, just a bit.

What was she doing there? Bruce was watching her from the bar. She’d told him she was going home.

She should go home.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she said.

‘So did I,’ he said. ‘But Charles said the dancing was excellent.’

‘Yeah?’

‘And you were here,’ he said simply, and as the music resumed—this time a slow waltz—he took her into his arms again. ‘I’m not sure where this is going but I sat over there and figured that if I stayed there and you stayed here then I might miss my chance to find out.’

She gasped. She tried to break away. But he was holding her tight against him. Her treacherous body was moving in time with his, melding to his.

She succumbed to the dance.

She succumbed to Alistair.

And, as if on cue, the lights went out.

Just like that, the room was blanketed in darkness. The sound system died and the last twangs of music from the band sounded tinny and echoing.

‘Is this a hint?’ someone said from the floor. ‘Is it time for the bride and groom to go to bed, then?’

There was laughter but it sounded a bit nervous. For all the assurances they’d had that the cyclone would miss them, the locals were starting to make up their own minds.

Alistair didn’t release her. For some dumb reason she didn’t want him to. She stood in the centre of the room while everyone else grew scared, and she felt … safe.

Within the secure hold of Alistair’s arms she could look out and see what was going on.

‘Harry …’ It was Charles, calling from the doorway, and his tone was urgent.

There was still some dim light—each table had a candle. Some candles had gone out, but people were using the lit ones to relight others. Soon there was enough light to see by.

Cal came through from the veranda, seeking them out specifically.

‘What’s wrong?’ Georgie asked, seeing by his face that there was real trouble.

‘There’s been a bus accident up in the hills behind the town,’ he told them. ‘Martha and Dan Mackers saw the Mt Isa bus go past half an hour ago. Just after it passed they felt what they thought was an earth tremor. Given this weather, it’s a wonder they ventured out at all but they thought they’d take the Jeep down and check. They didn’t get far. The road’s collapsed just south of their place and the bus is on its side down the cliff. That place is a dead spot for mobile coverage so the report’s been brief—Dan had to get back to his place to phone in. So we have no idea what we’re facing. Charles is briefing Harry now. Can you two get back to the hospital?’

‘I’ll come with you up the mountain,’ Georgie said, hauling herself out of Alistair’s arms and stepping forward. ‘Of course I’ll come.’

‘No,’ Cal said. ‘I was with Charles when the call came and we talked it through. Yes, we’ll want medics on the mountain, but we want only the experienced emergency guys. We’ve had an upgrade on the cyclone. It’s veered. We’re right in its path and we’re expecting to be hit by morning. The hospital has to be prepared for multiple casualties and the code black disaster response is activated right now.’

‘Code black?’ Alistair queried.

‘The big one. Major external threat. I’d rather go,’ Georgie said.

‘Not going to happen,’ Cal snapped. ‘Not with that face. Charles wants you here, Georg—apart from him, you’ll be the most senior doctor staying put if I have everyone else I want. Alistair, can we count on your help?’

‘Of course,’ Alistair said, as if it was a no-brainer.

‘Then the reception’s off for now,’ Cal said ruefully. ‘Every able-bodied man, woman and child in this town has a job to do right now. A cyclone with a crashed bus thrown in for good measure …’

‘Oh …’ It was a wail from Sophia Poulos, mother of the bridegroom. She’d been standing open-mouthed as Charles had explained to people at his end of the room what was happening. But Sophia’s wail caught them all. ‘Oh … This is bad.’

But the mother of the groom was nothing if not resolute. She took a deep breath, gazed fondly at the bride and groom and nodded. ‘But of course you need my boy,’ she said. ‘And our Emily. Who else can look after these people? Emily, let me find you something else to wear.’ Another deep breath. ‘All this food,’ she said, and she clucked. ‘All this lamb. I’ll tell the chef to start making sandwiches.’

At least she didn’t have time to think of Max. Or Alistair. Though even that thought meant that she was thinking of them both. Back at the hospital they were in full crisis mode. The back-up generators meant they had power, and they needed it. Every available person was set to work, securing anything that could be an obstacle. Boarding up the windows was the first line of defence, but it was assumed that they might break open and nothing in the wards was to be loose to become a flying threat.

A receiving ward was set up fast. Any patients not on the critical list were sent home if their homes were deemed secure, or moved to a safe haven—the local civic hall—if they weren’t. Of the remaining patients, those in the wards with the largest windows were shifted to the south side, out of the direct blast and hopefully more secure. The storerooms in the centre of the buildings that had no windows at all became the wards for the most seriously ill—the patients who, if the worst came to the worst, couldn’t get out of bed and run for cover.

The theatres were windowless but Charles wasn’t giving them over for ward use.

‘Even if there are no injuries from this bus crash, if this turns into a full-blown cyclone we’ll have trauma enough. I want additional linen, stores and pharmacy supplies in Emergency, Intensive Care and both theatres. Move.’

A big storeroom at the back of the doctors’ house was used for back-up medical supplies. Charles wanted everything brought into the main building. Everything.

‘I don’t want to run out of bandages and not be able to get at more,’ he growled. There were six elderly people in the nursing-home section of the hospital. Charles had them sorting and stacking as if they were forty instead of ninety, promising them they could rest at the civic hall when they’d finished.

Amazingly they rose to the occasion. Everyone did. Including Alistair. Georgie was supervising storage, making sure she knew where everything was so it could be easily reached. Alistair was one of those doing the ferrying of gear from the doctors’ house. He was using a car to travel the short distance but even so he was soaked to the skin. Every time she saw him his clothes were soggier. His beautiful suit would be ruined.

They passed each other without speaking. There was no time for speaking. The threat was rising with every howl of the wind.

She couldn’t locate the oxygen cylinders. Where were they? The normal storeroom was now a ward, housing Lizzie and her four children. Megan’s cot had been wheeled in there as well, and Georgie paused in her search to check on her little patient.

She was still sleeping but she was looking great. A quick check on the notes at the end of the cot indicated she’d woken up and had a drink and smiled at her mother. Fantastic. Thanks to Alistair.

But there were problems. Lizzie was sitting bolt upright in bed, looking terrified. ‘Georgie, is the jail secure?’

‘You’re worried about Smiley?’

‘I don’t want him to be killed,’ Lizzie muttered, and Georgie abandoned her task and crossed to the bed to hug her. She included Davy and Dottie in her hug.

‘Of course you don’t,’ she said, understanding. ‘Smiley’s the kids’ dad. He’s been your husband. Of course you’re worried.’

‘I don’t hate him enough to want him killed.’

‘We checked.’ Help was suddenly there from an unexpected source. Alistair was standing in the doorway, dripping wetly onto the linoleum. ‘Charles has had people contact everyone this side of the creek, letting them know what’s happening, making sure they’re safe. Harry told him the holding cell’s a prefabricated makeshift building and he’s worried about it. So he’s let Smiley out for the duration. Harry has the feeling Smiley thinks he might skip town, but he’s not too worried—there’s no way out of here until this is over.’

‘But—’ Lizzie said, and Georgie answered her fears.

‘Don’t worry,’ she told her. ‘Look where we put you. Smiley would have to walk through two wards to reach you, and the whole town knows his story. He’ll be too busy saving his own skin to worry you now.’

‘Do you care about him?’ Alistair asked, and Lizzie flashed him a look of astonishment.

‘Of course I care. He’s the kids’ father.’

‘And you don’t want to waste your time worrying about him,’ Georgie said, understanding the young woman’s fear. ‘Which you would if you knew he was in danger. So now you can put him aside.’

‘So where’s your Max?’ Lizzie asked.

Georgie froze. She’d been watching Alistair in the doorway. Looking at the way his shirt clung wetly to his chest. Just looking. But her thoughts were dragged sideways to her little brother.

‘One of the nurses said Max was in trouble,’ Lizzie said shyly. ‘It’s only … Davy got into a fight at school last year and Max stood up for him. I hate to think of him out there in this.’

‘He’s not out there.’

‘No, but the nurse said you didn’t know where he was.’

‘He’s with his father.’

‘And his father’s on the run? Oh, Georg …’

‘We do get ourselves into trouble,’ Georgie said, and gave her another hug. ‘Who needs men? What a shame Max and Davy and Thomas will grow into the species.’

‘They’ll be nice,’ Lizzie said stoutly. ‘My Davy and my Thomas will be nice, caring men. I won’t let Smiley turn them into thugs. And I bet your Max will be great, too.’

‘He will be,’ Georgie said.

‘Georg, where do you want the extra stretchers?’ Alistair asked, and if his voice sounded strained she was going to ignore it. Back to work.

‘In the corridors. We’ll stack them near the entrance so they can be grabbed easily by whoever needs them.’

‘You think it’s going to be big?’ Lizzie asked.

Georgie shrugged. ‘I hope not. We should miss the brunt of it.’

‘But you think—’

‘I think we have to be prepared. Do you need help with the stretchers, Dr Carmichael?’

‘No.’ He looked at her for a long, hard moment. ‘I’m fine by myself.’

He disappeared the way he’d come.

‘He’s sweet on you,’ Lizzie said, and Georgie felt herself change colour.

‘No.’

‘He is.’

‘It’s no matter whether he is or not,’ she snapped. ‘Like you, I always fall for losers. So if he’s falling for me, he’s a loser by definition.’

And then the casualties from the bus came in.

This was no minor accident. The driver was dead. The first grim-faced paramedics told them that, and told them also to expect more deaths and more life-threatening injuries.

It seemed they had a major disaster on their hands before the cyclone even hit.

The first ambulance brought in a woman with multiple fractures and major blood loss and an elderly man who was drifting in and out of consciousness and showed signs of deep shock. Query internal bleeding? X-rays, fast.

X-Ray was in huge demand. Mitchell Caine, their radiologist, was supposedly on holidays, but his locum had been delayed by bad weather. Mitch had been dragged in that morning to assess Megan’s scans, and now he was back again.

‘I shouldn’t be doing this, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said as he worked his way through the queue of patients needing urgent assessment. ‘I’m so tired I’m not dependable. Just double-check any results I give you before you operate. If I say right leg, check I’m not talking about an arm.’

But his X-rays and reports were solid and dependable. Nothing like a code black to make a man forget about holidays.

Hell, this situation was impossible, Alistair thought. One overworked radiologist and no one else for three hundred miles?

‘No one’s going to sue here,’ Georgie told him as they worked on. ‘Everyone does what they have to do.’

Which was why twenty minutes later Alistair, a neurologist, was in Theatre, trying to set a fractured leg well enough to stabilise blood supply to the foot. With Georgie, an obstetrician, backing him up.

There was no time to question what they were doing. They just did it.

With the blood flow established—Alistair had worked swiftly and efficiently and their patient could now wait safely until a full orthopaedic team was available to fix the leg properly—they returned to the receiving ward to more patients.

The second ambulance was there now, and a third, and there was a battered four-wheel-drive pulling in behind it.

There were patients everywhere, some walking wounded, suffering only bruising and lacerations, but others serious.

For all the chaos, the place was working like a well-oiled machine. Maximum efficiency. Minimal panic. Charles had divided his workforce into teams, but the teams were fluid, doctors and nurses moving in and out of teams as an individual needed specific skills.

Every medic in Croc Creek was on duty by now, including a nurse heavily pregnant with twins.

‘Don’t mind my bump,’ she said cheerfully as they worked around her. She was cleaning and stitching lacerations with skill. ‘Yeah, I’m ready to drop but I’ve told them to be sensible and stay aboard until this is over. Just hand me the stuff that can be done sitting down.’

There was more than enough work to hand over.

This was emergency medicine at its worst. Or at its best.

‘You know, if this had happened in my big teaching hospital back in the US, I doubt if we’d do it any better,’ Alistair muttered as they worked through more patients, and Georgie felt it was almost a pat on the back.

For all of them, she said hastily to herself, but it didn’t stop a small glow …

She was carefully fitting a collar to a man who’d been playing it hardy. ‘I’m fine, girl,’ he’d said. He’d come in sitting in the front of one of the cars but now he was white-faced and silent. Georgie had noted him sitting quietly in a corner and had moved in. Pain in the neck and shoulders. Query fracture? Collar and X-rays now, whether he wanted them or not.

There was a flurry of activity at the door and Cal was striding through at the head of a stretcher. ‘Alistair, can we swap duties?’ he called across the room, and Georgie intercepted the silent message that crossed the room with his words.

Uh-oh. Alistair was a neurosurgeon. If Cal wanted him, it’d be bad.

It was.

‘Head injury,’ he said briefly. ‘We had to intubate and stabilise her before bringing her in. Mitch has already run her through X-Ray. His notes and slides are here. Georgie …’ She was near enough for him not to have to call her. ‘Can you assist here?’

‘Mr Crest needs X-rays.’

‘I’ll take that over,’ Charles called. He’d just finished a dressing and he wheeled over to take Georgie’s place. He glanced across at Cal’s patient and saw what they all saw. A laceration to the side of her face. Deeply unconscious. ‘Jill,’ he said to their chief nurse, ‘you work with this one, too. That’s all I can spare. Do your best.’

‘She’ll need you all if she’s to pull through,’ Cal said gravely. ‘The notes are there, guys.’

Jill was already wheeling the trolley swiftly into a side examination cubicle where they could assess the patient in relative privacy. Alistair was working as the trolley moved, while Georgie skimmed through Mitch’s notes.

The woman—young, blonde, casually dressed but neat and smart by the look of it—was limp on the trolley, lying in the unnaturally formal pose that told its own story. Her breathing was the forced, rasping sound of intubation. Such breathing always sounded threatening, Georgie thought as she read. As it should. It meant the patient wasn’t breathing on her own.