“Rita? What’s wrong?” Dylan asked.
“Nothing is wrong,” Ethan said, following Rita into the hall. “Her arm is healing well. Better than I expected.”
“If you can call this healing,” Rita said, waving her arm around. It was covered in bandages from her shoulder to her fingertips, and metal pins stuck out along the length. “I can’t even use the stupid thing, and it hurts like hell.”
“The pins are only for a few more weeks, Rita,” Ethan said in his most soothing manner. “Once the bones have knitted, we can start you on a rehabilitation program.”
“Whatever, Doc. The fact remains I’ll never have full use of this arm again,” Rita railed, her cheeks flushed with angry blood. “You might as well cut it off.”
“That’s not true, Rita,” Ethan said. “With time, you should be able to—”
“Able to what? Shoot a gun or wield a knife?” Rita asked. “We both know that will never happen.”
“Maybe not, but you’ll have some range of motion. You won’t be useless,” Ethan said, casting a pleading look at Dylan.
Rita snorted. “Whatever you say, Doc. I’m out of here. Maybe I’m lucky, and the thing will fall off on its own.”
She stormed down the hall without another word, and Dylan scrambled to catch up. “Rita, wait!”
“Talk to her, Dylan. Please,” Ethan called with a shake of his head.
“I’ll try,” Dylan replied over her shoulder. She caught up with Rita and grabbed her by her uninjured hand. “Hey, slow down. I’m here for you.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need your sympathy,” Rita said with gritted teeth. “If I hear another stupid platitude, I’m going to scream.”
“How about a drink, then?” Dylan asked.
Rita slowed, her eyes narrowed. “A drink?”
“Yeah, I know one of the cooks in the cafeteria. She’ll sneak us a bottle of wine if I ask nicely,” Dylan explained.
“For real?”
“Would I lie to you about something like that?” Dylan asked.
“I could use a drink. Shit, I could use the whole bottle,” Rita said, her eyes glittering.
“Let’s go then. Time’s a-wasting,” Dylan said, leading the way to the cafeteria. Along the way, she studied Rita from the corner of her eyes. Her friend didn’t look like herself at all. No wonder Ethan asked for my help. I only hope she’ll listen.
Chapter 3 - Amanda
Amanda tucked away the last of the folded sheets and straightened up. The linen cupboard sported an array of colors. Unlike the hospitals in the old days, they couldn’t afford to be picky, and white was no longer the primary color. Their uniforms reflected that too. While she wore a white overcoat, her shirt was navy blue, and her pants were black, matched by sensible shoes. They rarely bothered with skirts or dresses either. It wasn’t practical. Not when an attack on the base could occur at any moment.
“That should do it,” Brenda declared, wheeling the empty trolley back the way they’d come.
“Mm,” Amanda murmured, falling in next to her. She tucked away a strand of hair and checked her watch. “I’m off to the cafeteria for a quick lunch. I promised I’d meet Dylan, and I’m already ten minutes late.”
“Okey dokey,” Brenda said with a cheerful wave. “Have fun!”
“Thanks.” Amanda watched Brenda leave with a shake of her head. Nothing seemed to faze the girl. Not the long hours spent on her feet, or the constant streams of patients lining up for treatment every day. Not even her near-death experience at the hands of Grissom and his men had kept her down for long. She soon bounced back with endless optimism.
Another look at her watch sent Amanda scurrying toward the cafeteria, and she scanned the tables for Dylan. She spotted her in a corner with Rita, laughing at something the other woman had said.
“Amanda, you’re here,” Dylan cried. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”
Rita pulled out a chair for Amanda with her right hand and gestured at the seat. “Welcome to the party.”
“Party?” Amanda asked, her eyebrows lifting.
“Yeah, we decided to forget about our troubles and celebrate our triumphs instead,” Dylan said, pushing a cup across the table.
Amanda picked it up and eyed the deep-red liquid. Her nostrils tingled with the smell of fermented grapes, and she gasped. “Wine? You’re drinking wine?”
“Indeed, my friend. It was provided to us by a kind lady in the kitchen. One that happens to owe me a favor,” Dylan said.
“You have a connection in the infirmary’s kitchen?” Amanda asked, unable to believe her ears.
“Yes, but keep it quiet. I don’t want her to get into trouble,” Dylan said with a careful look around. “Go on. Take a sip.”
“I’d rather not,” Amanda said. “I’m still on duty.”
“Duty, schmuty,” Rita said. “You’re here to support me in my time of need.”
“Time of need? What’s wrong?” Amanda asked.
“I’m trying to decide whether I should cut this arm off or not,” Rita said with an air of defiance, indicating her bandaged limb. “Or rather, force the doctor to do it for me.”
“You can’t do that,” Amanda said with horror. “You’ve come so far, why would you want to?”
“Because I’m tired of the pain, and I’m tired of everyone telling me I’ll be fine when that’s the furthest thing from the truth,” Rita said.
“You will be okay, I promise,” Amanda said, leaning forward.
“I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to sit at this table if you’re not going to join us in a drink,” Rita said, waving a hand at Amanda’s cup.
“I told you, I can’t. I’m on duty,” Amanda repeated.
“It’s just one measly little drink,” Dylan insisted. “We promise we won’t tell.”
Amanda sighed, resigning herself to a tiny sip. “There, see? Now, tell me why you want Dr. Hayes to cut off your arm.”
“The stupid thing is useless. I don’t know why Dr. Hayes didn’t amputate in the first place. If he had, I’d be back on the team by now.”
“Maybe, but you’d be minus an arm,” Amanda protested.
“I’m with her on this, Rita,” Dylan
