“I have to leave you here,” the driver said in Hindi, as he pulled to a halt.

“I don’t want to get out here. Take me up to the door!”

The driver’s eyes nervously flashed in the darkness as he looked back at Samira. He was clearly afraid. “But the owner of such a house will be angry, and he might call the police and the police will demand money.”

“I live here,” Samira snapped, followed by choice Internet-learned expletives. “If you don’t take me, you won’t be paid.”

“I chose not to be paid. The police will demand ten times as much.”

With a few more appropriate words, Samira climbed from the three-wheeled scooter, and without looking back started hiking down the drive. In the background she heard a burst of equivalent profanity before the auto rickshaw noisily powered off into the night. As she walked, Samira mulled over how she was going to describe her experience taking care of the American. It didn’t take her but a moment to decide to leave out the minor concerns and concentrate on the success: Mr. Benfatti had been taken care of. That was the important thing. She surely wasn’t going to complain like Veena had.

Entering the house, she found everyone, all four officers and all eleven other nurses, in the formal living room watching an old DVD called Animal House. The moment she walked into the room, Cal paused the movie. Everyone looked at her expectantly.

“Well?” Cal questioned. Samira was enjoying teasing the group. She’d taken an apple and sat down as if to watch the movie without providing a report.

“Well what?” Samira questioned, extending the ploy.

“Don’t make us beg!” Durell threatened.

“Oh, you must mean what happened to Mr. Benfatti.”

“Samira,” Durell playfully warned.

“Everything went fine, exactly as you all suggested it would, but then again, I didn’t expect anything different.”

“You weren’t scared?” Raj asked. “Veena said she was scared.” Raj was the only male nurse. Despite his bodybuilder appearance, his voice was soft, almost feminine.

“Not in the slightest,” Samira said, although while she spoke she remembered how she’d felt when Benfatti was gripping her arm hard enough to hinder the blood flow.

“Raj has volunteered for tomorrow night,” Cal explained. “He’s got a perfect patient scheduled for surgery in the morning.”

Samira turned to him. He was a handsome man. In the evenings he wore his tie shirts a size too small to emphasize his impressive physique. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine,” Samira assured him. “The succinylcholine works literally in seconds.”

“Veena said her patient’s face twitched all over the place,” Raj commented with a concerned expression. “She said it was horrid.”

“There were some fasciculations, but they were over practically before they began.”

“Veena said her patient turned purple.”

“That did happen, but you shouldn’t be standing around admiring your handiwork.”

Some of the nurses laughed. Cal, Petra, and Santana stayed serious.

“What about Benfatti’s computerized medical record?” Santana asked. Since Samira hadn’t yet mentioned it, Santana was afraid she’d forgotten. She needed the history to make the story more personal for TV.