Angel Food and Devil Dogs by Liz Bradbury

They'd do a few tests, monitor our vitals, and a doctor would come in, take a look at us and tell us to go. Then they'd charge our insurance companies a thousand dollars each... probably more.
    In the curtain-walled room on my other side was Georgia Smith, she was screaming in pain. In between screams she was refusing the painkillers. I opened the curtain and made my way around to her head, keeping out of the way of the emergency workers, I leaned and spoke evenly in her ear. "Georgia, let them give you the drugs. It will allow you to reach a different level of consciousness. That's where you need to be right now."
    She heard me and it registered. She bit her lip and nodded. Her lip began to bleed. I turned to the nurse with the needle and said, "She'll take the drugs now."
    Max Bouchet had frantically tried to call his wife on his cell phone, but inside the hospital he couldn't get a clear signal and they wouldn't let him go outside to make a call. It was making him a basket case. I could hear him arguing. I yanked open the curtain to his space and said, "Max, chill," like a dog command... Rex, sit . Bouchet's expression of anger and frustration broke like a cloud and he smiled.
    I said, "By the way, from now on, after what we've been through, I'm calling you Max. You can call me Maggie. I insist. And if my insurance doesn't cover all this, I'm putting it on my expense sheet." Which reminded me that I still had Bouchet's check in my shoulder bag, but I didn't know where the hell my shoulder bag was. I didn't even want to consider what might have happened to my laptop.
    "Maggie," he said simply.
    "Don't tell the medical staff, but I must have passed out for a few minutes, because I don't know what happened between getting Bart Edgar out of the room and ending up outside with an oxygen mask on. Can you fill me in?" I asked quietly.
    Now that he had something to do, he seemed less agitated. He took a deep breath. His voice rumbled up like he was telling a theater of people a bedtime story. "Well, let me see... yes I think you did lose it for a while. I think you held your breath for about two minutes while you were dragging Bart out and that must have made you light-headed." His rich tones were carrying all over the place. People in the waiting room could probably hear him.
    I hissed insistently, "Will you keep your voice down... geez, they'll hear you!" I paused to listen but no one came in. "OK, go on, but keep it down." I made one of those palm down pushing gestures. And then put my finger to my lips, making the international symbol for Shhhh!
    We sat in two chairs, he said in a whisper loud enough to hear across a ballpark, "You were sitting on the floor breathing well, but I noticed you had a glazed look. The medics pulled you aside. One talked to you and you stood up and walked out with him. If you were passed out then, you did a great imitation of someone who was fine."
    "What happened to Bart?"
    "The EMTs took him and Georgia downstairs on stretchers. Georgia was talking, well, screaming really. Bart wasn't talking, but he was alive. They put an oxygen mask on him. I'm sure they rushed him to the burn unit... Damn, I want to call my wife... what if she hears about this on the news!" Bouchet punched his hand for emphasis.
    To get him focused again I asked, "What about Daniel Cohen?
    "Oh, Daniel's fine. Just dirty and tired. They may have him here to check him." Bouchet looked around as if he might be somewhere in this examining enclosure with us, but we just hadn't noticed him. Stupidly, I looked around too.
    He continued, "Oh, here's something else... just seconds after the EMTs took over for you on Bart, Daniel yelled that we needed fresh air in the reception area. He picked up one of those chairs by the window. He yelled, 'Stand back!' Then threw the chair at the glass, but it just bounced off. So get this..." Bouchet was smiling shaking his head, "Connie Robinson runs in out of nowhere and grabs that marble stand that