“Yeah, the game. What else?” responds T.K. He slurs his words badly, and they’re rather difficult to make out. To gain Zack’s attention, he struggles against his bonds. The needles on Zack’s instruments dance wildly. Some go off scale.

“Hey, T.K. Calm down.”

“Only if you tell me about the game.” It comes out with thespian clarity.

Correctly figuring it to be the simplest way to keep him quiet, Zack fills him in. “We’re almost ready to start the fourth quarter. They scored once more, but missed the extra, so it’s twenty to nothing. They tagged us hard after you got caught. Clausen, Dedemus, Healy and DeGeller are all permanently out. We’ve only got three actives left.”

“Four. You’ve still got me.” He says it resolutely, as if there is no doubt.

“I’m afraid not, T.K.” The jitney, siren wailing, pulls up outside. Zack unstraps him preparatory to his journey to the hospital. “Your arm is shot. I’ll level with you. As bad as it is, we’ll be lucky to save it. You go back out there, and I don’t give it a chance.”

His chest free, T.K. sits up. The room spins around. He fights off the nausea and remains upright, resisting Zack’s frantic efforts to lay him back down. “Zack, can you strap this thing to my side? Keep it out of my way?”

“T.K., I don’t think you ought to be sitting up.”

“That’s not what I asked you.” T.K.’s voice has a stern edge to it, the no-nonsense tone of a leader, a man accustomed to having his bidding accomplished, immediately and without question. “Can you patch me up well enough to go back in there? Yes or no?”

Zack faces a curious dilemma. He may be a doctor, but he’s also a football player. After a brief internal struggle, he subjugates his medical ethics to his athletic desire. “Well, yes. But I don’t recommend…”

“Do it.” T.K. twists around so his injured left side faces Rauscher directly.

“T.K., I won’t be responsible for…’

“Do it!”