“We’re going to take him back into surgery,” Seth’s doctor said. “Which is fairly typical at this point.”

“And which point is this point, exactly?” Hammer wanted to know.

“Day two of progressive streptococcal gangrene and necrotizing fasciitis,” he replied. “The necrosis is visibly beyond the margins of the original debridement.”

While Dr. Cabel respected Chief Hammer, he did not want to deal with her. He cast about for a nurse. Shit. All were busy elsewhere.

“I need to get started,” he said.

“Not so fast,” Hammer let him know. “Exactly what are you going to do in surgery?”

“We’ll know better when we go in.”

“How about hazarding a guess.” She might slap him.

“Generally, at this stage, the wound is debrided again down to bleeding, healthy tissue. We’ll probably irrigate with saline and pack the wound with Nu-Gauze. We’ll continue with hyperbaric oxygen therapy twice a day, and I recommend total parenteral nutrition.”

“Multivitamins then,” she said.

“Well, yes.” He was mildly surprised by her ability to connect the dots.

Hammer had been buying vitamins for years and failed to see anything special about the suggestion. Dr. Cabel started to walk off. She snatched him back by his greens.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” she said. “Seth has had strep throat a dozen times in his life. Why has it turned into this now? Aside from his lousy immune system.”

“It’s not exactly the same thing as the strep that causes a sore throat.”

“Clearly.”

This lady was not going to let him go. Dr. Cabel felt sorry for Seth in a different way, now. Living with this woman would wear out anybody. Imagine asking her to fetch coffee or take your word for it? When all else failed, Dr. Cabel switched to the language that only his super race understood.

“It’s quite possible strep has acquired new genetic information, picked up genes. This can happen through infection by a bacteriophage,” Dr. Cabel informed her.

“What’s a bacteriophage?” She wouldn’t give up.

“Uh, a virus that can incorporate its DNA into a bacterial host,” he said. “The hypothesis is, that some M1 strain of group A strep in approximately forty percent of recent invasive infections seems to have acquired genetic material from a phage. This is according to WHO.”

“Who?” Hammer frowned.

“Exactly.” He looked at his watch long enough to give her a broad hint.

“Who the hell is who?” She would get an answer.

“World Health Organization. They have a strep reference laboratory. The long and short of it, this may all be connected to a gene that encodes a toxin called superantigen which is widely believed to be connected to toxic-shock syndrome.”

“My husband has the same thing you get from a tampon?” Hammer raised her voice.

“A distant cousin.”

“And since when do you amputate for that?” she demanded as passersby glanced curiously at the two people in greens arguing in the spotless, well-lit corridor.

“No, no.” He had to get away from this woman, so he, the English major, threw Shakespeare at her. “Ma’am, with what your husband’s got, surgery remains the most effective treatment. ‘Be bloody, bold and resolute,’” he quoted. “King Lear.”