porn.
"Growth," the little woman whispered with a dip of her eyes and a twitch of her nose that reminded Molly of nothing so much as a mouse catching scent of a cat. "Down there."
"I see."
Bartholin cyst, probably. They hit women where it hurt, right in the vaginal area, and were preferable to childbirth only in that they lasted less than nine months.
Losing patience, Molly made a grab for the chart. Truth be told, she couldn't wait to see how the secretary had described the problem. This was, after all, the woman who had fainted dead away when finally convinced that a person could, indeed, contract syphilis in the throat. And why. Her attempts to gentrify descriptions of bodily functions regularly ended up in the book of fame in the back.
Molly read this one and burst out laughing.
The secretary blanched. The patient sighed. Molly apologized.
"It's not you," she said to the woman, who was certainly not happy to be there in the first place.
It was the line on the chart that said, Chief complaint. The place where the secretary was supposed to transcribe the complaint as the patient gave it. Molly was sure the now-blushing secretary had meant to write "Patient has a swelling in her vagina." What it came out as, though, was, Patient states she has a swell vagina.
Molly couldn't wait to get back to the back and show this one off.
"Yo, bitch! You dissin' me?"
A woman screamed. Half a dozen people started running. Molly looked up just in time to see a tall black youth in a blue bandanna and Raiders jacket level a MAC-10 at her head. The truce hadn't lasted as long as they'd hoped. Molly dropped like a stone, taking two of the secretaries with her just as the gun went off.
Chapter 6
I shouldn't have laughed, was Molly's only coherent thought as she hit the floor. Over her head the Plexiglas shattered, spraying her with fragments. Out in the hall, the crowd had disappeared like kids at a school bell.
"Hail Mary, full of grace," the little secretary squeaked in her ear.
Molly almost laughed again. She's right back in the back, she wanted to tell the distraught woman, who was curled up tighter than a hedgehog beneath her. I'll go get her right now.
The gunman emptied the clip into the wall over Molly's head and reloaded, walking and shouting epithets as he did. Molly finally reached up high enough to hit the toggle switch set into the wall right next to the chair. If she pushed it up, it called for security to respond. If she pulled it down, it meant for them to run like hell, and bring guns. She pulled it down. Then she yanked the cord to the mike so she could pull it onto the floor and alert the people in the back, who probably hadn't even heard the popping through the din of patients.
"Doctor Holliday to the desk stat," she announced, hearing her breathless voice throughout the floor. "Doctor Holliday."
A code they'd once thought cute. Doc Holliday meant a gunslinger on the street. Get the women and children into the saloon. With so many Wyatt Earp movies out lately, the gang-bangers were catching on. The staff was thinking of coming up with something else. Even so, Molly heard the brief halt in noise at the back, the terrible scramble to get the patients to safety.
The gang-banger was moving around to the doorway. Molly could hear him. At least she thought she could. Her heart was hammering so hard, she wasn't sure of anything.
For just the briefest of moments, she smelled the cordite and fought a rush of old memory. Crouched beneath a window in a Quonset hut, trying her damnedest to hand off instruments during a rocket raid in the middle of the night. Heart pounding, hands sweating, breath rasping in her throat as if she'd been in a fire. Trying to stay calm when the only thing keeping her alive was luck.
But she wasn't in a Quonset hut, and the enemy wasn't half a mile away. He had just reached the door to the triage station, where Molly and the secretaries crouched beneath the protective
"Growth," the little woman whispered with a dip of her eyes and a twitch of her nose that reminded Molly of nothing so much as a mouse catching scent of a cat. "Down there."
"I see."
Bartholin cyst, probably. They hit women where it hurt, right in the vaginal area, and were preferable to childbirth only in that they lasted less than nine months.
Losing patience, Molly made a grab for the chart. Truth be told, she couldn't wait to see how the secretary had described the problem. This was, after all, the woman who had fainted dead away when finally convinced that a person could, indeed, contract syphilis in the throat. And why. Her attempts to gentrify descriptions of bodily functions regularly ended up in the book of fame in the back.
Molly read this one and burst out laughing.
The secretary blanched. The patient sighed. Molly apologized.
"It's not you," she said to the woman, who was certainly not happy to be there in the first place.
It was the line on the chart that said, Chief complaint. The place where the secretary was supposed to transcribe the complaint as the patient gave it. Molly was sure the now-blushing secretary had meant to write "Patient has a swelling in her vagina." What it came out as, though, was, Patient states she has a swell vagina.
Molly couldn't wait to get back to the back and show this one off.
"Yo, bitch! You dissin' me?"
A woman screamed. Half a dozen people started running. Molly looked up just in time to see a tall black youth in a blue bandanna and Raiders jacket level a MAC-10 at her head. The truce hadn't lasted as long as they'd hoped. Molly dropped like a stone, taking two of the secretaries with her just as the gun went off.
Chapter 6
I shouldn't have laughed, was Molly's only coherent thought as she hit the floor. Over her head the Plexiglas shattered, spraying her with fragments. Out in the hall, the crowd had disappeared like kids at a school bell.
"Hail Mary, full of grace," the little secretary squeaked in her ear.
Molly almost laughed again. She's right back in the back, she wanted to tell the distraught woman, who was curled up tighter than a hedgehog beneath her. I'll go get her right now.
The gunman emptied the clip into the wall over Molly's head and reloaded, walking and shouting epithets as he did. Molly finally reached up high enough to hit the toggle switch set into the wall right next to the chair. If she pushed it up, it called for security to respond. If she pulled it down, it meant for them to run like hell, and bring guns. She pulled it down. Then she yanked the cord to the mike so she could pull it onto the floor and alert the people in the back, who probably hadn't even heard the popping through the din of patients.
"Doctor Holliday to the desk stat," she announced, hearing her breathless voice throughout the floor. "Doctor Holliday."
A code they'd once thought cute. Doc Holliday meant a gunslinger on the street. Get the women and children into the saloon. With so many Wyatt Earp movies out lately, the gang-bangers were catching on. The staff was thinking of coming up with something else. Even so, Molly heard the brief halt in noise at the back, the terrible scramble to get the patients to safety.
The gang-banger was moving around to the doorway. Molly could hear him. At least she thought she could. Her heart was hammering so hard, she wasn't sure of anything.
For just the briefest of moments, she smelled the cordite and fought a rush of old memory. Crouched beneath a window in a Quonset hut, trying her damnedest to hand off instruments during a rocket raid in the middle of the night. Heart pounding, hands sweating, breath rasping in her throat as if she'd been in a fire. Trying to stay calm when the only thing keeping her alive was luck.
But she wasn't in a Quonset hut, and the enemy wasn't half a mile away. He had just reached the door to the triage station, where Molly and the secretaries crouched beneath the protective
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