Huenengarth put down his article.
The hand jabbed... poking at something.
Huenengarth seemed to be savoring the picture.
He looked at me as if I'd interrupted a terrific dream.
The thing between the fingers probed.
Huenengarth's smile stretched under his little mustache.
'Damn you,' I said.
He picked up the little black radio and held it to his mouth.
'On your mark,' he said.
The hand was at the I.V gauge now', using the thing between its fingers to nuzzle a rubbertipped inlet.
Sharp-tipped thing.
White cylinder, much like a pen. Ultra-thin needle.
It darted, a bird pecking a wormhole.
Plunged.
Huenengarth said, 'Go,' to the radio.
It was only later that I realized he'd skipped 'Get set.'
He moved toward the door, but I threw the bolt and was out first. All those years of jogging and treadmilling finally paid off.
The door to 5o5W was already wide open.
Cassie was on her back in the bed, breathing through her mouth.
Post-seizure slumber.
She was covered to the neck. I.V tubing curled from under the blankets.
Cindy was sleeping, too, flat on her stomach, one arm dangling.
Milo stood next to the I.V pole, baggy in green surgical scrubs.
A hospital ID badge was pinned to his shirt. M. B. S'IURGIS, M.D his photographed face cross and bearish.
The real face was policeman-stoic. One of his big hands was clamped over ChipJones's wrist. The other bent Chip's arm behind his back.
Chip cried out in pain.
Milo ignored him and told him his rights.
Chip had on a camel-colored jogging suit and brown suede running shoes with diagonal leather stripes. His back was arched in Milo's grip and his eyes were splayed and bright, sick with terror.
It was his fear that made me want to kill him.
I ran to the bed and checked the I.V gauge. Locked sealed with Krazy Glue. Stephanie's idea. None of what was in the cylinder was entering Cassie's bloodstream. Creative, but a risk: seconds later, Chip would have felt the pressure build behind the needle. And known.
Milo had him cuffed now. Chip started crying, then stopped.
