Sometimes You Break Even

by VICTOR ULLMAN

HARTNUNG made a quick swing down the ward while he brought Martinelli the nembutal. The fellows had settled down slowly after the night lights were thrown on. The heat was too tough.

The half-sick had the energy to feel frustrated in their search for relief, and already the really sick men had begun their suppressed night groaning, muted half-sighs that punctuated each stage of their efforts to sleep in spite of pain.

The beds marched down both sides of the ward and presented an orderly progression of ghostly mounds in the dim lights. A few changed shape as their occupants squirmed about. All the men were stripped to pajama bottoms, and still they lay in pools of sweat. It looked like a bad night, a sleepless, pain-wracked night when even drugs seem ineffective against the lack of sweet, fresh air.

Martinelli was on his elbow. The young sailor was worried and he let his sweating face twitch in greeting to Hartnung. That was meant to be a smile. The boy was scared stiff. His coal-black eyes reflected sharp flecks from the night lights as he blinked. His hands picked at the covers.

“Got something for you, kid,” Hartnung said offhand.

“What is it?”

“Something to make you sleep. Take it and quit worrying about the operation. You don’t have anything really serious.”

“But they shaved me in the back, Doc. That means they’re gonna stick that needle in my spine. I don’t like that. I hate it. They bend you ‘way over so’s your knees knock your face and then the doctor takes that long needle and — Holy Christ —”

Hartnung patted the boy’s shoulder but did not know what to say. The pattern never varied. He had compared notes with the other hospital eorpsmen. A kid who would grin down the mouth of an enemy gun always got the shakes the night before his operation. But it wasn’t the operation itself. Even if they were going to have their guts laid wide open, they were frantic with fear of the blessed spinal anesthetic. You could persuade a man in the midst of screeching pain that it would have an end. You could get a patient to hold on while you peeled clotted dressings from raw flesh. But the spinal? There was no comfort.

“Look, Martinelli,” he said earnestly, “you probably won’t believe me but I’ll tell you anyway. Tomorrow you’ll be grateful for that spinal. Tomorrow you’ll say you’ve been a damned fool. Now take this stuff and go to sleep.”

He watched Martinelli take the nembutal, then patted his shoulder once more. Maybe there was something you could tell these kids. Maybe it was something only their mothers could tell them. They were too damned young.

Hartnung stepped outside the porch door in search of a stir of breeze for himself. He looked up into a starry night and a yellow half-moon, ringed with haze. It struck him that the night was silent. It was completely dead. None of the usual rustlings among the leaves of the climbing vines. The palms stood quietly black against the sky. No night birds or the incessant chirping of insects to combine into a pervading wail as a background for the other night noises. The air was so still that his own body heat seemed to throw an aura of humidity about him. The night was not ordinary.

He returned to the ward office and found Miss Norman reading the order book. In spite of the heat, her nurse’s uniform held its starch and she seemed cool as ever. Hartnung slumped into a chair beside her.

“Hello, Harry. Feet hurt again?”

“As usual. Wish I knew a good doctor.”

She smiled mildly at the customary joke. “How’s the ward?”

“Well, I hope your other wards are quiet, because I’ll need you. Don’s turned bad. Something happening. The special watch told me he didn’t even move when the doctor catheterized him about seven. I checked his chart and the blood pressure keeps hopping up and down.”

“The doctor keep him under oxygen?”

“Sure. He’s bad.”

“How about Carl?”

Hartnung marveled how she was able to keep track of the patients in her wards. She knew each one, not just their names, but their possible conditions. She must be a natural in the nursing business. She looked like a kid, a wind-blown youngster with a set of regular features topped by straying brown hair. A sharp, perked-up nose told the patients she would joke along but get mighty hard if they by-passed her orders. She glided down the ward with a certainty possessed only by somebody with the kind of compassion that did not stop at tearful sympathy.

“Oh, Carl seems O.K.,” Hartnung answered. “He’s chipper as ever, but they’ve still got him on the critical list.”

“That’s because stomach wounds are tricky, Harry. He might go along fine for quite a while, and all of a sudden the infection travels and that’s that.”

They both were silent, thinking of wisecracking, romantic-looking Carl, back from the fighting with two holes in his stomach.

“By the way,” Hartnung asked, “did you go swimming with Fred today?”

Her face came alive. “You bet I did. He took me in town for dinner, too. This night duty — it sure hinders a girl trying to catch a man.”

“Nuts. You’re crazy about him. You told me you had two swim suits and then you bought a white one. When a girl does that for a date, she’s gone overboard and is trying to be calculating about it. That flyer has you in a barrel roll.”

She glared at him indignantly. “We have another swimming date tomorrow, so maybe the white suit wasn’t such a bad idea.” She relaxed into a smile.

“ The way you talk to me, I wonder who’s boss around here. You see too much, Harry.”

“I’m a specialist in love. I’ve handled lots of divorces.”

“You lawyers — ” The telephone interrupted with its soft, insistent burr. Her face set suddenly into serious lines.

“How soon can we expect it?” she asked quickly. “All right. But you’ll have to get somebody for my other wards. I’ve got two criticals here and a lot of orthopedics.” She listened for the reply. “I don’t care if you have to wake up the dead. This is a bad ward. If I got stuck away from it, Hartnung couldn’t handle it, good as he is. I’ll stay right here.” She slammed down the receiver.

“Harry, that’s the alert for a hurricane. It’s expected in a few hours.”

“Holy Moses!” he breathed. “Just when we have Carl and Don—” He sat up straight. “Don — I’ve got to get some more oxygen and ice for him. We should have at least another tank.”

“Then get it now. You know what you have to do?”

“I should by now. ‘Assume that you will be without light, power, food, and in danger of fire. You may have seriously ill patients and be unable to obtain the services of a medical officer. Prepare as though you will be isolated for at least forty-eight hours.’”

“I guess you do know it. I’m glad you’re on with me. Well, I’ll check the ward and you start getting set.” She stood up. “Harry, did you hear the patrols come in?”

He was puzzled for a moment. “You mean the Catalinas? I thought your Fred was a fighter pilot.”

“Yes, of course. Well, let’s go.” She grabbed a flashlight and started down the ward.

Hartnung tried to collect his thoughts. He had to cart a heavy oxygen tank from the storehouse. He had to get plenty of ice for the oxygen tent. He had to cart food from the galley, food he could serve quickly. Every pan and pail in the ward should be filled with water in case of fire. He had to get all the windows down or a sudden blow could take the roof off. He had to check the narcotics locker. Besides, Carl would need at least 10,000 units of penicillin. Then there were eight men on a sulfa routine. He had to start working.

2

IN THE next few hours Hartnung was outside a dozen times. Each time he looked fearfully at the sky but saw nothing more than a veiled brightness. It made him uneasy. This was not like the storms at home, where the glowering clouds shouted the coming violence. This was a sneaking thing.

The trees stood motionless along the ramp connecting the one-story wards. Under them the air was thick with stagnant heat. Hartnung sweated his supplies along the runways and gasped for air. On his last trip to the refrigerators he got the penicillin and put it in the ward icebox. He thought he was all set but was too exhausted to check on himself. He went down the ward in search of Miss Norman and automatically checked off the patients as he passed their beds.

Martinelli was still on his elbow, glaring into space. Taylor, the ankle cellulitis, was snoring, while Helfer, the femoral fracture, groaned steadily in his sleep. Gizarian was awake as usual under the round frame that kept the pressure of the sheets from his burned legs. He waved his lighted cigarette to Hartnung.

Expecting to find Miss Norman taking care of Don, Hartnung turned into the first quiet room. She wasn’t there and he threw a questioning look at Sawyer, the special watch who was seated alongside the oxygen tent.

“Same,” Sawyer shrugged; “hasn’t moved in a couple hours. I sure wish I could get into that tent with him. At least the air is cool in there.”

Don’s gaunt face was framed by the window of the oxygen tent. A ragged stubble grew on his chin, a soft, blond, youthful stubble that had sprouted four days earlier when he was brought in. His eyes were closed and his respiration was rapid. It was a wonder he was alive at all. The doctors said he was a goner when they pulled him from the plane, half-drowned, and his legs flopping about.

Hartnung found Miss Norman in Carl’s room. He hated to go in. There was a dirty smell there, and in the still night it would be fierce. Usually it hung over the clean whiteness like a pall. It was a positive smell, unmistakable to anyone who had seen infected stomach wounds. Hartnung halted at the doorway.

“Don’t be bashful, Doc — come on in,” Carl said weakly. His dark, thin face was smirking. In spite of the rubber tube that ran from his nose to the bubbling jars of the Wangensteen above his head, Carl looked jaunty. He was enjoying the attention.

“How is it, Carl?” Hartnung walked into the room and his stomach heaved.

“Fine, just fine. Miss Norman just voted me her favorite pincushion. Every time she gives me a needle she says, ‘This one is for good luck’ — and she pokes it in again.”

He started to laugh, but each indrawn gasp caught at the muscles of his stomach. The tears streamed down his face and mixed with sweat. He bit his lips.

“You don’t have to be a hero, Carl,” Miss Norman said. “I know it hurts.”

His face relaxed and he winked at Hartnung.

“She’s a tough customer, Doc. I’m the sickest guy in this hospital and she talks like I have a cold. If I could move I’d get out my Purple Heart, if I had it and if I live to get it.”

Miss Norman patted his cheek.

“I’m afraid you’ll live to get it. There are too many women you haven’t made happy yet. They’re waiting for you.”

“Say, you got something there,” Carl chuckled. “Think of all the women who wouldn’t know about love if I kicked off. I got a mission to perform.”

She gave his bed a last pat. “You sure have. Now quit the line and listen to me. We’re going to have a storm and I want you to buzz us the minute you want anything. If we don’t come running, it’ll mean the electric is off, so throw this duck through the door. We’ll hear it. Now, you get some sleep before it starts.”

Carl winked at Hartnung again. “O.K., Hazel. You may be tough as nails, but if I was myself—”

“You’d captivate my young heart. O.K. Go to sleep.”

They went back through the ward. The air was breathless there. Hartnung had closed all but a few windows and the whole building seemed sealed in. The men were restless and several heads lifted from pillows as they passed.

“I’m all set,” Hartnung said. “How are the fellows?”

“Everybody’s fine except Don. I put in a call for the medical officer for him.”

“I thought he didn’t seem right. I guess you sort of get a feeling about these things after a while, don’t you?”

“You do, and it’s a lousy feeling. You wonder sometimes—” Her voice trailed off. “You heard any planes recently?”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t. This time of night the Catalinas would be coming in from patrol. I guess they had the storm warning and scattered north.”

They reached the office.

“I’ll get the food ready,” Hartnung offered. “We might not get another chance to eat. How about a steak sandwich and some iced coffee?”

“Steak? Where did you get it?”

“Well, I had to get the master key for the refrigerators so that I could get the penicillin. So, well, the meat locker opens with the same key and — so I happened to —”

“All right, all right. Don’t tell me. There must be a regulation that would make me an accessory, and a steak sandwich sounds good.”

Hartnung sliced the steak with a scalpel and fried it on an instrument tray. When the sandwiches were ready he brought them into the office. Miss Norman was preparing a row of hypodermics. A strand of hair hung over her eyes and clung to her sweating forehead.

“I’m getting these ready just in case,” she said. “We may need them in a hurry. There’s a wind coming. I can hear it in the distance.” She turned squarely toward him. “Harry, they wouldn’t be flying on a night like this, would they?” Her eyes were tortured.

“You’re being silly. You know they had more warning on the hurricane than we did, and we got plenty. For God’s sake, don’t be a woman. Your Fred is a fighter cadet, so he wouldn’t be on a patrol. He’s probably safe in bed. Unless he’s sitting up with a sick poker hand. I hear all those guys study between deals.”

She pushed the hair out of her eyes.

“Go chase yourself. You’re so damned sure of yourself, I wonder how your wife stands you.”

“Well, maybe a couple of thousand miles between us helps.”

She was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, Harry.

I was just kidding.”

“I know. We all have our problems. Right now the steak is getting cold. Let’s eat.”

They chewed on the sandwiches for a while but Miss Norman was fidgety. She kept her head cocked to listen.

“I can hear that wind coming. It’s close now.”

“All you hear is your love-stricken heart.”

“You can kid all you want. I’d feel better if I knew Fred was home.” She was terribly worried. “I’d — I’d even feel better if I knew he was on a date with another woman — maybe — if he was safe, I mean.”

“Nuts. The lofty motive again. Last time I heard it —”

They were both brought to their feet by a loud crash from the end of the ward. There seemed to be a dead silence after it, but then there was a shrill whistle of wind and the rustle of papers being blown around.

Hartnung raced down the ward and heard someone call to him as he passed, “It’s a bed screen.”

Hartnung cursed himself. The one thing he’d forgotten. He folded the screen and slid it under the nearest bed. The whole ward was awake now, simply because he had forgotten something. He heard Miss Norman call out from the other end of the ward.

“Listen, fellows, there’s going to be a storm. We’ll need your help. You’d better get as much sleep as you can now, because when it breaks — you can write home about it. If anybody feels bad or wants something, use the buzzer, but if that doesn’t get us, pass the word along each bed until it hits somebody who can walk. He’s to find us. Get it?”

A high, falsetto voice answered. “But, Hazel, I’m so frightened. Can’t you hold my hand for a while?”

Hartnung knew it was Cranston, the cutup of the ward in more ways than one. The fellows laughed and whistled. But Miss Norman was ready.

“Not a chance. I might give you a fever.”

Another gust of wind swept down on the building and it shook with a lasting tremor. The wind blasted through the few open windows and swept everything loose against the far wall.

“Better close them,” Miss Norman said. “I’m going to check Don and Carl again.”

3

HARTNUNG felt the wind a real force against his stomach as he closed them. The wind was steadier now and it pressed against the building with solid pressure. Twigs and leaves scraped along the window’ screens, and branches slithered down the sloping roof.

With all the windows shut, the ward was sealed in and all the noise of the outside turmoil seemed a lurking threat surrounding it. The night lights flickered twice and Hartnung flinched. They would really have trouble when the power went out. He got two extra flashlights and placed them on tables at either end of the ward. Then he went in search of Miss Norman. She was in Don’s room, alone, working over the boy.

“Harry, quick. Shove the oxygen up to 10 pounds. He’s biting air.”

Hartnung swore as he twisted the valve on the tank. He’d seen too many men die a few minutes after they fought to tear huge chunks of air. He refused to think of Don going. They had nursed him as though he were a child, and had sweated four nights in attempts to anticipate his needs. He watched Don’s face as the oxygen concentration increased inside the tent. It seemed too slow. The kid opened and closed his mouth in the characteristic chop but his face was not discolored. To Hartnung that was hopeful. The others had gone purple.

“Say, where’s Sawyer?” he asked.

“I sent him out to get a doctor. I don’t know if they’ll be able to get back, but we’ve got to do something. The telephone’s out.”

She was stripping Don’s sheets and raising his legs by the Stader splints that tacked each one together. She was looking for hemorrhage. Hartnung grabbed the scissors from the dressing table and cut away the compress on the thigh wound. No excess bleeding there.

“It must be internal,” Miss Norman said urgently. “Harry, we’ll have to do something in a hurry. His heart is jumpy.”

“Digitalis?”

“I’m afraid so. Get it anyway. We’d better have it ready.”

He ran back through the ward. When he opened the medicine locker he noticed that the bottles were jiggling around on the glass shelves as the whole building trembled under the wind. There was an overtone of noise from the outside like the sound of city traffic from an office window high above the street.

She was sitting at the oxygen tank when Hartnung got back to Don’s room. The boy seemed to be breathing easier. His chest heaved slowly but regularly and there was still no purple. Hartnung broke the ampoule and sucked up the solution with a sterile hypo. He wrapped the needle in a piece of gauze soaked in alcohol.

“It’s all ready.”

She was staring at Don. “Thanks, Harry. We’ll hold onto it. He seems to be easier now. Look, you give Carl his penicillin. I’d better stay here.” She winced as the building seemed to heel over under a fierce blast. “Harry, I can’t help thinking this might be Fred. One little mistake and he could get all smashed up like Don here.”

“That’s true, but how many do get smashed up? You know your Fred has a damned good percentage in his favor, so why not be grateful for that?” He thought for a moment. “Gosh, I guess I’ve been a little thick. I’ve been kidding you about Fred. I didn’t know you were really overboard about him.”

“Oh, forget it, Harry. I love to hear you kid about him. It’s just my luck to fall for a flyer. Just my lousy luck. He’ll finish his training here and ship out and I’ll be shipped to another hospital. We’ll write for a while and then it’ll taper off like an autumn rain. I’ve seen it happen before.”

“If it does happen, you’re well out of it. If the guy is worth your time, he’ll stick to a picture of you. You never know when it was taken, but it’s there. He’ll look at it from ten thousand miles away and five miles high in the air. He’ll see it anywhere he happens to be. It’s more permanent than any snapshot. It’s the picture snapped in the heart and developed in the mind, then printed in memory. If the lug goes for you, he’ll have a picture.”

She was staring at him, mouth wide-open. “Harry, you must love your wife. You talk like a sentimentalist.”

“Huh? Oh, go on. I used to use that spiel on a distraught wife who wanted a divorce and there didn’t seem to be much money in the case.”

“Don’t be ashamed of yourself. You’ve helped me. Now, get going.” Her eyes were shining.

Carl scarcely stirred when Hartnung gave him the penicillin. The morphine had taken. He started a round of the ward and settled down in the office for his paper work. He tried the telephone but the line was still dead. The gusts of wind seemed to be coming regularly now. But still there was no rain. That was a strange thing, because no storm Hartnung ever had seen blew so hard without the rain flying like bullets before it. The heat felt worse. It had a feel to it like a soft, mushy, dead thing. It was just three o’clock. Hartnung nodded over his paper work.

4

THE rain came two hours later. It came suddenly, a solid sheet of water that deluged the whole building and flooded the gutters in an instant. It sounded like a giant faucet flowing directly onto the roof. On the easterly side the water shot straight along the wind’s path and crashed against the thin wall. Somehow it came through all the closed doors and windows on that side in a fine spray that wet everything nearby. Hartnung hurried to pull every bed away from the wall and into the aisle. Another thing he should have anticipated.

The rain brought no relief from the heat. If anything, it added a clammy humidy to the thick atmosphere inside the ward. The men were restless and some cried out. As he moved the beds, Hartnung felt them quiver under his hands as the concentrated blasts of wind and rain hit the building. Only complete exhaustion or drugs could keep any of them asleep through this.

He was almost back to the ward office when he heard the buzzer above the noise of the storm. It was a steady, prolonged warning. Hartnung turned on his heel and ran back down the ward. It was Carl.

Miss Norman was wrestling with the heavy Wangensteen bottles hanging from the tall frame. By raising the bottles she was trying to increase the suction clearing the poison from Carl’s stomach. Hartnung grabbed the crosstrees and shoved the upper frame higher, then turned the lock key hard.

In the dead air the smell was terrific. Carl’s face was brick red. He panted and yet his chest scarcely moved.

“It’s happened, Harry,” Miss Norman said distractedly. She turned Carl’s eyelids up and muttered under her breath. “Get me ice and alcohol — quick.”

She clipped the words and Hartnung ran. He cursed his fumbling hands as he dug out the ice. First Don and now Carl. What if they lost both of them? It would break her heart. She fought against death with all her emotions. It was a real adversary to her, constantly thrusting at the vitals of her patients with lethal weapons. A high temperature or a rapid respiration was more than a symptom to her. They were as real evidence that danger had struck as a gaping wound would be.

When he got back she was standing in the center of the room, staring at Carl.

“Get him cool. Splash the alcohol and put ice everywhere, under his armpits, on his neck.”

“How bad is he?” Hartnung asked as he worked.

“Real bad. Temperature high and his heart skipping. The infection is traveling.”

He slopped the alcohol all over Carl’s face and chest, then fanned it with a towel to hasten evaporation. When he put the ice on, he found Carl’s body burning—not the heat caused by the atmosphere, but the dry, searing heat of high internal temperatures.

“Harry, we’ve got to get oxygen for him.”

Her voice was so strained, Hartnung turned to her. She was standing in the middle of the room, in the same spot.

“We need oxygen and there is only one place to get it.” She bit her lip and thrust out her chin as though she expected him to be horrified.

“From Don?” She nodded, and for the first time Hartnung felt anger against her. “Kill one man off to save another — maybe? Does that make sense?” He fanned the towel violently. “Don seems easy now. We might create another crisis if we took the oxygen away from him. If the heat didn’t kill him, the lack of oxygen would.”

She glared at him and pulled the bothersome loose strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Don’t you think I know all that? But what should I do? Carl might be saved if he gets oxygen. Don may live without it. We’ve got to take the chance. Look at him now and tell me what you would do.”

Hartnung turned back to the bed. Carl’s dark face was in repose. But so was his chest, and his mouth was closed. He had to breathe through his mouth because of the rubber tube in his nostril. Then he wasn’t breathing. Maybe he was gone. But suddenly Carl raised his head. Somewhere in his body urgent signals went out and his head went up, his mouth opened wide, and he swallowed hard. Then he was quiet again, but for so long that Hartnung’s heart began to pound.

This was too long. Carl lay there, his chest smooth and still; only the bluish vein at the base of his neck showed any signs of circulation. He had halted in his pain. He had stopped completely. He was poised between air and nothing. Then with a spasm the chest heaved again and Carl’s head came up and he opened his mouth and was alive.

5

HARTNUNG found that he had not taken a breath through Carl’s fight. He tasted the sweetness of the air, hot, humid, and foul-smelling as it was.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and thought for a moment. “I guess you’re right. But look, can you give him a shot of something, keep him going for just a little while?”

“Sure, but then what?”

His voice pleaded. “There’s an emergency oxygen kit in the surgical storehouse. I want to try to get it.”

“Oh, no, Harry. You’d never make it. If you couldn’t get back I’d be sunk here alone. Besides, you can’t hope to bring that heavy kit back.”

“But that’s just the point. I got an extra tank of oxygen. All I’d have to get is the tent and valve stand. You can’t tell. I might be able to do it.”

“We can’t take the chance, Harry. You know our orders. We’ve even got to let a man die rather than take any risk with the others. First we have to get men back to duty, and then prevent death. That’s the logic of it and you know it.”

He glared at her wildly. “Logic? Don’t give me that. You think this whole business is logical? That men should get holes in their stomach? That they should be torn to pieces. That’s not logic. That’s a perversion and it can’t be justified. I’ve been brought up — why, my own kid is being brought up — to consider life something to be cherished, protected. I just can’t take your ‘logic.’ All I know is Carl is dying. Don might die. There’s a chance to get oxygen for them both. We’ve got to try it. Can’t you see that?”

There was compassion in her eyes. “I know how you feel, Harry. I went through it when I was in training. I had to give in. It’s rotten cruel and they lied to us in the schools and churches when they told us a human life is sacred. It isn’t. It’s expendable. I didn’t like it either, Harry, but I had to accept it.”

“Not me. I never will.” He was pale with anger and his fists were clenched. “You tell me this, and try to be honest about it. What would you do if that were your Fred in there, the boy you are nuts about? Would you take the oxygen away from him without first trying everything?”

He kept her eyes with his fierce glare and saw her blink when the question struck home.

“That’s not fair, Harry. I —”

“ Who’s talking about being fair? What would you do? Hell, I don’t have to ask you. You’d be trying to get that kit yourself and you know it. All I’m asking is to let me do what you yourself would do if Fred were in there instead of Don.”

Her eyes dropped first. “All right. You win,” she whispered. “But, Harry, don’t take any chances. Hurry, please.”

He was out of the room like a shot and ran down the length of the ward to the door at the other end, hoping to get some shelter on the inside ramp. The door held against him as though it were locked. With his full weight surging he got it open enough to slip through. He was caught full by the blast and in a moment was soaked. He was carried for twenty feet before fetching up against the pillar on the far side of the ramp. He knew his arms were scraped, but he clung to the wet wood desperately. The wind tried to tear him from it and the turmoil of rain and roaring pressure confused him.

He let himself go and danced, in mincing steps, right past the next ward. He could see it only in the fine sheet of spray that flew up from it. The wind was a hand at his back, pushing insistently. He was swept on down the ramp, teetering crazily from side to side. He caught a glimpse of the overhanging sign above the entrance to the supply storehouse, and threw himself to his knees. He tried to cling to the wet wood but felt himself sliding as he crawled toward the door. Still on his knees he clung to the doorknob and inserted the key.

By opening the door a crack, Hartnung was able to get a good grip on the frame and in a moment was inside. The door smashed to beside him and he clung to the wall, taking deep breaths while the water dripped from his hair and clothing.

The emergency kit was ready and he stripped the yellow tent from its frame. He unhooked the tank stand, then wedged the tent between the frame and the ice container. He was ready to go.

He backed out the door, letting his shoulders push it open against the force of the wind. But when he was outside, the door pressed against the frame of the kit and he had to pull until his arms felt as though they were out of their sockets. The moment he got the kit clear, the door slammed with such violence that the glass shattered and some of the fragments blew down the ramp in a series of tinkles.

He backed up and made the edge of the building. Then the full pressure caught him; he felt his fingers slipping on the handle. He leaned backwards to gain purchase, and his wet rubber heels skidded on the wood. Instinctively he loosened his fingers and tried to regain his balance. The oxygen tent was torn from his grasp, and before he went down he saw a yellow flash as the tent unfolded and sailed into the air.

Even when he fell, he kept listening for the smash of the frame but heard nothing.

He fell on his side and used his left hand to break the impact. A shock of pain reached as high as his shoulder and then he felt himself sliding, slithering across the floorboards until he crashed against the side of the building. Again he hit with his left hand, and the grind of pain that resulted shocked him into complete relaxation. He lay against the building, the rain water flowing under and around him, and he fought successive waves of blackness that came from far back in his head to his eyes, where there were flashes.

When he felt pain again, he knew he would not pass out. He turned his face and started to crawl up the ramp, using his right hand only. He could not raise himself far because the wind was like a plotting demon. Whenever he got too high, it lifted him so that he started slithering back. It guessed every move. He settled down to inching his way along, using even the cracks between the floor boards to help him, forcing his knees to push his useless body forward.

When he saw the dim glow of the night lights through the door, Hartnung stopped cursing; and for the first time since he started on his way back, he thought rationally. Things were so clear that he even saw the doorknob. He nestled close to the door on his knees, then inched his way up until his right hand struck it. It was like a sudden calm in rough seas. He could make it now. The door would be hard to open, but he could get in. He braced a knee against the wall and pulled on the door. He pulled it open enough to squeeze his left shoulder into the opening and almost laughed triumphantly. He bad made it.

He pitched forward into the ward, and the door squeezed him through it like the paste in a tube. He by on the floor and then he did laugh. What a silly setup! He thought he could pull a miracle out of the wind and save Don. Not save Carl, but Don, because Don had his oxygen and had a right to it. He had a right to keep what he had — life. It was a small thing after you are dead, but so long as you could breathe every few seconds, even though you didn’t know it, you had a right to it.

He got on his feet and leaned against the wall. The water dripped from his hair and into his eyes. He fumbled along the wall. Now he would have to take the tent away from Don, take the blessed air away from him. He would drape the tent around Carl and the boy would taste the bubbling life that flowed from the tank. Perhaps he would live and never know that it was Don’s life that flowed in his veins, Don’s oxygen that made his blood red, Don’s years of growing maturity, love, and life that he would enjoy.

He felt the door to the office and stumbled inside. He had left his jumper on the back of a chair and found it quickly. With one hand he wiped the water from his eyes and hair and blinked into the desk lamp. He held onto the back of the chair because he felt that he was going to faint. Then he saw Miss Norman. She sat at the desk, her head back on the chair.

“We don’t need the oxygen now, Harry,” she murmured.

He was puzzled. “Shouldn’t I take it from Don?”

She sat up wearily and looked at him for the first time. Then she jumped to her feet.

“You’re hurt, Harry. Your knees are bleeding.” She ran to the medicine cabinet and took out alcohol and cotton. “You shouldn’t have tried it.”

She stooped and ripped away the white ducks, already torn at the knees. The edges of the cloth were bloody and the kneecaps were scraped raw.

“But we’ve got to get the oxygen to Carl. Wait, I—”

She looked up at him. “Carl was gone before I could get the digitalis in him. I gave it to him anyway, but there was no reaction. Forget it. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

She dabbed alcohol at his knee with a viciousness that told him she could not forget it. He felt the sharp sting of the alcohol and it made his legs seem weak. He weaved and the chair back seemed to give him no support. It was just us unsteady as he. He raised his left hand to get the hair out of his eyes but it wouldn’t gu above his nose. That was silly. He felt like laughing again. He heard her voice far away.

“Harry, what’s the matter with your arm?” Then he let go and crumpled to the floor.