I didn’t like waiting either, but I had done so much of it lately that perhaps it came easier to me. In any case, wait we did, dozing in our chairs until the sun came up. And then, since I was the domestic one lately, I made coffee for the two of us—one cup at a time, since Deborah’s coffeemaker was one of those single-cup things for people who don’t expect to be entertaining a great deal and don’t actually have a life. There was nothing in the refrigerator remotely worth eating, unless you were a feral dog. Very disappointing: Dexter is a healthy boy with a high metabolism, and facing what was sure to be a difficult day on an empty stomach was not a happy thought. I know family comes first, but shouldn’t that mean after breakfast?

Ah, well. Dauntless Dexter would make the sacrifice once again. Pure nobility of spirit, and I could expect no thanks, but one does what one must.

Dexter 2 – Dearly Devoted Dexter

CHAPTER 15

D R. MARK SPIELMAN WAS A LARGE MAN WHO LOOKED more like a retired linebacker than an ER physician. But he had been the physician on duty when the ambulance delivered The Thing to Jackson Memorial Hospital, and he was not at all happy about it. If I ever have to see something like that again, he told us, I will retire and raise dachshunds. He shook his head. You know what the ER at Jackson is like. One of the busiest. All the crazy stuff comes here, from one of the craziest cities in the world. But this— Spielman knocked twice on the table in the mild green staff lounge where we sat with him. Something else, he said.

What’s the prognosis? Deborah asked him, and he looked at her sharply.

Is that a joke? he said. There’s no prognosis, and there’s not going to be one. Physically, there’s not enough left to do anything but sustain life, if you want to call it that. Mentally? He put both hands palm up and then dropped them on the table. I’m not a shrink, but there’s nothing left in there and no way that he’ll ever have a single lucid moment, ever again. The only hope he has is that we keep him so doped up he doesn’t know who he is, until he dies. Which for his sake we should all hope is soon. He looked at his watch, a very nice Rolex. Is this going to take long? I am on duty, you know.

Were there traces of any drugs in the blood? Deborah asked.

Spielman snorted. Traces, hell. The guy’s blood is a cocktail sauce. I’ve never seen such a mix before. All designed to keep him awake, but deaden the physical pain so the shock of the multiple amputations didn’t kill him.