“Fire marshal’s investigating, Doc,” Maish Meyerson said from the doorway. “It was in a delicatessen. Near as we could figure, they had an explosion from a deep-fryer. Their joint was closed for painting and repairs. From the smell, though, they had the fryer full of a mixture of kerosene and cooking oil. It probably ignited just before it covered them.”

“Lucky for him it wasn’t a pizzeria. Nothing worse than third-degree mozzarella burns,” Potter said, striving to recover some of his cool.

The man groaned and Adam made sure he hadn’t yet been sedated and then gave him five mg. of morphine and told Potter to clean all of them up as much as possible, which under the circumstances was not much; fire was such filthy stuff.

Meomartino appeared, stony-faced but relaxing slightly when he saw that more hands really were needed, and drew bloods from the women for lab determinations and cross-match while Adam did the man, then they gave the patients their first electrolytes and colloids through the needles with which they had taken the blood. By the time they had moved the whole show into OR-3 a nurse had gone through the male patient’s wallet and he had a name and age, Joseph P. for Paul Grigio, 48. Meomartino supervised Potter taking care of the women while Adam placed the urinary catheter in Mr. Grigio and then did a cut-down on the long saphenous vein of the ankle, inserting a polyethylene cannula and anchoring it with silk ligatures to establish the intravenous life line.

He had partial-thickness burns over thirty-five percent of his body surface—face (lungs?), chest, arms, groin, a small section of his legs and back. Once he had been muscular, but now there was flab. How much reserve strength was there in that middle-aged body?

Adam was aware suddenly that Meomartino was watching him as he assessed the patient.

“No chance. He won’t be with us tomorrow,” the Surgical Fellow said as they stripped off their gloves.

“I think he will,” Adam said unwillingly.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Just a feeling. I’ve seen a good many burns.” Immediately he was angry at himself: he hardly qualified as a burns specialist.

“In Atlanta?”

“No, in Philadelphia. I worked as a diener in the morgue while I was in medical school.”

Meomartino looked pained. “It’s not exactly the same thing as working with them while they’re alive.”

“I know. But I feel this guy will make it,” he said stubbornly.

“I hope so, but I don’t think so. He’s all yours.” Meomartino turned to leave and then stopped. “I’ll tell you what. If he does make it, I’ll buy the coffee at Maxie’s for a week.”

Goddam sport, Adam thought, watching him leave with the women.

He administered tetanus prophylaxis and then followed the man as he was taken up to the ward. Using the Evans rule to estimate the amount of fluid replacement needed for a 170-pound male, he came up with 2100 cc. of colloid, 2100 cc. of saline and 2000 cc. of water for urinary excretion. Half of this would have to be dripped into the vein in the first eight hours, he knew, along with massive doses of antibiotics to fight the bacteria that would set up housekeeping all over the charred and dirty surface of the burned area.