There were effective treatments for some viral illnesses, such as herpes and influenza, but no antibiotics that worked for bronchitis, most middle ear infections, or a common cold. First-year medical students were warned not to use antibiotics unless a specimen had been obtained and a bacteria cultured from it. Ideally, the specimen should also be sent for antibiotic sensitivities. Yet each year, over and over again, thousands of times, millions, tens of millions, antibiotics were prescribed by physicians who wanted to keep their patients satisfied, and to keep them from bolting to another doctor.

It hadn’t been that long since the first reports of this new strain of bacteria had surfaced. Although the name some reporter had given it was frightening and catchy, it still wasn’t even the stuff of front-page headlines. A case here, another case there. Just another antibiotic-resistant microbe. No one really seemed that worried about it. In fact, Becca Seabury was only the fifth documented case in Boston, only two of them at White Memorial, one of the busiest hospitals in the world. In addition, all the cases Jennifer read about, in Boston and other places, were like Becca’s—large, open fractures or post-op wounds.

The MRSA bacteria—methicillin-resistant staph aureus—was much more prevalent, and from all she could tell, was gradually coming under control. She had the sense that the Doomsday Germ, a coccus with peculiar staining patterns, was an aberrancy—the sort of infectious agent like chicken pox that caused a minor illness in most, but went absolutely, lethally berserk in a few others.

Eczema. That was what was itching her hand. Nothing more, nothing less.

Please God. Let Becca make it through this. Let her get better and lead her life with what limbs she has left, and what the prosthetics people can make for her.

“Bart, how are we doing?” Beebe was asking in a soft voice. “Bleeding’s stopped here, but I’m not completely happy with her color.”

“Working on it, Chandler. Pressures down a bit. I’ve started some dopamine.”

“I’m ready with the oscillator, Bart. Go or no?”

There was a break in the exchange.

Prolonged silence, penetrated only by the beep of the oxygen saturation monitor.

“Go,” the anesthesiologist said finally.

Please, Jennifer pleaded once more.… Please.

At that moment, Beebe looked back at Jennifer.

“Jennifer, you holding up okay?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess,” she answered through her mask.

“Given Becca’s overall condition things are going as well as can be expected, but this is the hardest part now. I’m going to use the oscillating saw to separate Becca from this infection. After the infection is gone she’ll start getting better. I know you probably know all this, but given how much you have invested in her care, I wanted to be sure.”

“I’ve seen an oscillating saw used before.”