"Well, it's not really such a surprise," somebody said upon being informed of the identity of their newest patient. "She drives anything like she walks, she should be crippled."

"I should have known," Ellen all but wailed when she arrived for work to hear the news. Timmie wondered if Ellen thought she walked too fast, too.

And then, at least to amuse Timmie, Cindy's reaction.

"She's luckier than I was when it happened to me," she informed the person who'd told her, even as Ellen walked into Timmie's room in high-comfort mode.

"Are you all right?" Ellen demanded, patting the first available arm she could find.

"Although, of course, if it hadn't been for the accident," Cindy was going on, "I never would have met Fireman Dan."

Fireman Dan?

"Timmie?" Ellen said, patting harder. "Who did this? Is Meghan okay?"

"Ah, Fireman Dan," Cindy was saying outside the door. "Finest turnout gear in the city..."

Timmie's first reaction was to yell. That was her life Cindy had absconded with out there. Aw, what the hell. She laughed instead, which just made Ellen frown.

"I'm fine," Timmie said. "Meghan's fine. She wasn't there."

"You have to be more careful," Ellen insisted, still upset.

Cindy called greetings from the door on her way by.

Ellen headed off to be Restcrest's relief, and Timmie was left behind with the boring ceiling, the boring light fixtures, and the boring wait for negative films. And, of course, the boring fact that she was getting more frightened by the minute now that the real danger was over. Good trauma nurse that she was.

"Timmie! My God, Timmie, is that you?"

Timmie still couldn't move her head. There was surgical tape stretched across her forehead and chin to stabilize her to the c-collar and board. She could tell that voice, though, and wondered what the hell he was doing down here.

"You didn't have another graduation ceremony, did you?" she asked, swiveling her eyes as far as she could to catch the golden head just inside the door, conferring with the black one.

"What?"

She sighed, teeth chattering. "Nothing, Alex. I'm fine, really. Convince Chang, will you?"

Alex floated into her vision like a balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. "The ambulance crew said your car was totaled. He said something about alcohol. Honey, what happened?"

"There was no alcohol, Alex," she said simply. "You know that. I hit a patch of black ice on 94 and did a Bullitt over some guy's cow pasture. That's all."

Alex's smile was fond and worried. "It's enough, honey. You look like you lost a prizefight. Although I hear you have a heck of a tattoo."

Timmie blushed, scowled, and grumbled, "I know some EMTs who should be running for their lives this very second."

"Are you really okay?" he asked, all joking aside as he lay a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sore," she said to the ceiling. "Do you have any idea how hard these damn backboards are? My butt's asleep, and I'm gonna be picking adhesive off my chin for a week."

He grinned. "You don't sound too injured to me."

"Yeah, well. That's what I've been trying to tell them."

"I'm glad you're okay." His smile was radiant. "When I heard from Ellen, I ran right down. If you need anything... I mean, I have to head out of town for a couple of days, but if there's anything, I mean, anything I can do."

Tell me why people are dying in your unit. Tell me if you told someone to do this to me.

"Thank you, Alex. I'm fine."

"My car. You can use the Lexus while I'm gone."

Timmie's laugh was a surprised bark. "Why? You need that crash-tested, too?"

"I'm serious."

"Okay. Thank you. If you really want to help, though, tell Chang to get me off this damn board before I walk it down the hall."

Alex, knowing better, just patted, and Timmie was left to wonder.

* * *

Timmie ended up with X rays of everything but her ankles, four staples in her head, and an excuse from work that afternoon, which Angie accepted with predictable bad humor.

"But that's all right," she said with an alligator smile. "I have the perfect place for you to recuperate. Since you're supposed to work tomorrow, why don't you just do your ten over in Restcrest? They're short, and we're not, and you shouldn't be running around anyway, isn't that right?"

Timmie didn't have to lie about wanting to go to Restcrest after all. She did everything but call Angie a Republican. Ellen saved her job by appearing just then to take her home.

Barb caught up with the two of them as they reached the driveway. She was wearing virtually the same expression as Alex, although Timmie had to admit that it didn't look quite as attractive on Barb.

"You idiot!" the big woman snapped.

Alex had also said "I worried about you" better. The problem with that was that Barb was the one who was going to make Timmie cry. So Timmie bluffed her way through it.

"You shoulda been there, Barb," she teased. "I could see all the way to my house. I swear that poor farmer thought we were doing a remake of Smokey and the Bandit."

Barb just planted herself in Timmie's way, tears sparkling in her soft gray eyes. "You... total... idiot!"

No, Barb. Laugh. Don't make it real. Timmie swallowed hard against the fear Barb's concern was going to let loose again.

"I'm fine," she insisted, holding her arms out as if to prove it. "Really."

Barb glared harder, the tears brighter. "Don't... ever do that to me again," she said. "When I heard what happened—"

Timmie didn't know how else to shut her up. It looked silly as hell, but Timmie didn't know what else to do but put her arms around her friend. Which she did, barely. On her toes.

"I'm not in the mood for more funerals," was all Barb could manage.

It took a few moments, but when Barb straightened, she was dry eyed and in control. She held her hand out to Ellen. "Give me the bag. I'll take her home."

"But..."

Barb didn't say another word. Ellen just handed it over. "Thank you, Barb," she said. "I really did want to get back over to the unit. Little Mrs. Worthmueller isn't doing very well right now."

Timmie thanked her for taking the time, and Barb held her tongue until Ellen had made it inside the door. Then Barb, carrying the plastic personal effects bag that held Timmie's bloodied and scissored clothes like a dead mouse, turned a scrub clothes and Doc Martens-clad Timmie back toward the parking lot.

"So what happened?" she demanded.

Sucking in a steadying breath, Timmie told her.

"Why?" Barb asked. "It makes no sense. All that stuff's in the computer already."

Her attention more on negotiating a suddenly high curb with very sore hips, Timmie shrugged. "To give them a chance to change something on the records they didn't want anybody else to know?"

Barb shook her head. "Then they would have done it by now. I spent the morning looking everything up, and it isn't any different. There were fifteen patients from Restcrest turfed to the ER to die, another six who died in the unit because the family wouldn't allow them moved, and four more who died of cardiac arrest before the policy change. Of those, only six died of something else definable."

Timmie slowed almost to a near stop right in the middle of the traffic lane. "You really think they were killed."