"You fix me up, Doc. . . . I don't want any hospital. . . . You know . . . how they are. . . . I'm sure they'll keep me hanging around in the waiting room forever."

"Yeah, you're probably right about that. Okay, here's the deal. Are you comfortable in that chair? Otherwise we can have the paramedics bring us a stretcher from the ambulance."

"I'm fine."

"You always were tough." He tightened a tourniquet around the president's arm, located a suitable vein at his wrist, and after the obligatory, "Just a little stick, now," slipped the catheter in easily.

"That didn't even hurt," Stoddard said. "You are damn good."

"Told you I was. You run the country, I stick needles in people."

"In my America, everyone's got to do something."

"We're getting this IV going to improve your hydration and loosen up some of the mucus that's causing you trouble. As soon as I'm comfortable things have settled down, I'll pull it. In addition, we're giving you bronchodilator and cortisone to widen your tubes and let more air in, and to reduce any inflammation. On a scale where ten is the worst asthma attack imaginable, you're maybe a three-point-five."

"I think my breathing's already a little easier."

"Good," Gabe said, confirming that air movement was certainly no worse. "That's a definite possibility. Alison, let's go ahead and give him zero-point-three of epinephrine subcutaneously."

This time, she was totally present.

"Epi, zero-point-three. Check the security seal on the box and I'll open it up and give it. Sub-Q."

Gabe verified as he had with the cortisone inhaler that the packaging was intact. Then he unwrapped it and passed it over to Alison. Except for her brief episode of distraction, she engendered confidence and was as much of a pleasure to work with as she was to be around.

"Gabe? . . . It's not like you think."

What in the hell had she meant by that? he wondered now.

Five minutes passed. Gabe stayed focused, constantly checking the president's blood pressure, pulse, respiratory rate, oxygen level, and air movement.

Lungs clearing . . . respiratory rate down from 26 to 18 . . . BP 130/85 . . . oxygen saturation up to 95 from 92.

Five more minutes. Half a liter of IV fluid in. . . . Color good . . . wheezing almost gone . . . O2 saturation 96 . . .

Lattimore had returned to the audience. Gabe could hear him speaking through the microphone but couldn't make out the words. Whatever he said brought about a healthy round of applause. Moments later, the chief of staff reappeared.

"I just told them you were doing well," he whispered to Stoddard. "The vultures want to know if you're coming back."

"No!" Gabe snapped. "He's not."

"I'm breathing much better," the president said. "Plus that shot—what is it, like adrenaline?"

"It's exactly adrenaline."

"Well, it's really pumped me up. I feel like I'm about to take off from the deck of a carrier."

"Mr. President, you need to just stay put. You were this close to an ambulance ride to Johns Hopkins."