Toxin

THREE

Friday, January 16th

By the time Kim did his rounds and checked Mr. Arnold in the recovery room, another hour had passed. En route to his former wife's house in the University section of town, he pushed his ten-year-old Mercedes and made record time. But it was still going on eight when he pulled up behind a yellow Lamborghini directly in front of Tracy 's house.

Leaping from the car, Kim jogged up the front walk. The house was a modest affair built around the birth of the twentieth century, with a few Victorian gothic touches, like pointed arch windows in the second-floor dormers. Kim took the front steps in twos to reach the columned porch, where he rang the bell. His breath steamed in the wintery chill. While he waited he fanned his arms to keep warm. He wasn't wearing a coat.

Tracy opened the door and immediately put her hands on her hips. She was plainly anxious and irritated. "Kim, it's almost eight. You said you'd be here by six at the latest."

"Sorry," Kim said. "It was unavoidable. The second case took longer than anticipated. We ran into an unexpected problem."

"I suppose I should be used to this by now," Tracy said. She stepped out of the way and motioned for Kim to step inside. She closed the door behind him.

Kim glanced into the living room and saw a smart, casually dressed, mid-forties man in a suede fringe jacket and ostrich cowboy boots. He was sitting on the couch, with a drink in one hand and a cowboy hat in the other.

"I would have fed Becky if I'd had any idea it was going to be this late," Tracy said. "She's starved."

"That's easy to remedy," Kim said, "I mean, we are planning on going out to dinner."

"I wish you would have at least called," Tracy said.

"I was in surgery and didn't get out until five-thirty," Kim said. "It's not like I was out golfing."

"I know," Tracy said with resignation. "It's all very noble. The problem is, you were the one who picked the time, not me. It's a matter of consideration. Every second I thought you were about to arrive. Luckily we're not flying commercial."

"Flying?" Kim questioned. "Where are you going?"

" Aspen," Tracy said. "I've given Becky the number where I can be reached."

" Aspen for two days?"

"I feel it's time for me to have a little fun in my life. Not that you would know what that is, apart from your surgery, of course."

"Well, as long as we're being nasty and sarcastic," Kim said, "thanks for sending Kelly Anderson to the surgical lounge. That was a pleasant surprise!"

"I didn't send her," Tracy said.

"She said you did."

"I just told her I thought you were in surgery," Tracy said.

"Well, it's the same thing," Kim said.

Over Kim's shoulder, Tracy saw her guest stand up. Sensing he was uncomfortable from undoubtedly overhearing her exchange with her former husband, Tracy motioned to Kim to follow her into the living room.

"Enough of this bickering," she said. "Kim, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Carl Stahl."

The two men shook hands and eyed each other warily.

"You two entertain yourselves," Tracy suggested. "I'll run upstairs and make sure Becky has everything she needs. Then we can all go our separate ways."

Kim watched Tracy disappear up the stairs. Then his gaze returned to Tracy 's apparent boyfriend. It was an uncomfortable situation, and Kim couldn't help feel some jealousy, but at least Carl was several inches shorter, with significantly thinning hair. On the other hand, the man was tanned despite its being mid-winter. He also appeared in reasonable physical shape.

"Can I get you a drink?" Carl suggested, motioning toward a bottle of bourbon on a side table.

"Don't mind if I do," Kim said. Kim had never been much of a drinker, although over the last six months a nightly cocktail had become a habit.

Carl put down his cowboy hat and stepped over to the sideboard. Kim noticed he seemed to have a proprietary manner.

"I saw that interview Kelly Anderson did with you a month or so ago," Carl said as he shoveled several ice cubes into an old-fashioned glass.

"I'm sorry," Kim said. "I was hoping most people missed it."

Carl splashed a generous dollop of liquor over the ice and then handed the drink to Kim. He sat back down on the couch next to his cowboy hat. Kim lowered himself into a facing club chair.

"You have a right to be angry about it," Carl said condescendingly. "It wasn't fair. TV news has an irritating way of twisting things."

"Sad, but true," Kim agreed. He took a sip of the fiery fluid and inhaled before swallowing. He felt a comfortable warm feeling course through his body.

"I certainly didn't buy her premise," Carl said. "You guys earn every penny you get. I mean, I personally have a lot of respect for you doctors."

"Thank you," Kim said. "That's very reassuring."

"Seriously," Carl said. "In fact I was premed for a couple of semesters in college."

"Really? What happened? Didn't you like it?"

"It didn't like me," Carl said with a laugh that ended with a peculiar snorting sound. "It was a wee bit too demanding, and it began to cut into my social life." Carl laughed again as if he'd just told a joke.

Kim began to wonder what Tracy saw in the guy.

"What do you do?" Kim asked to make conversation. Besides, he was interested. Considering the lower-middle-class neighborhood, the yellow Lamborghini outside had to belong to Carl. Plus there was Tracy 's comment about not flying commercial. That was even more worrisome.

"I'm CEO of Foodsmart," Carl said. "I'm sure you've heard of us."

"I can't say that I have," Kim said.

"It's a large agricultural business," Carl said. "Really more of a holding company. One of the largest in the state, actually."

"Wholesale or retail?" Kim asked, not that he knew much about business.

"Both," Carl said. "But mainly export wholesale involving grain and beef. But we're also the major stockholder in the Onion Ring burger chain."

"I've heard of them," Kim said. "I even own some stock."

"Good choice," Carl said. Then he leaned forward, and after furtively looking around as if he thought there were a chance of hidden eavesdroppers, he whispered: "Buy some more Onion Ring stock. The company's about to take the chain national. Consider it an insider tip. Just don't tell anyone where you heard it."

"Thanks," Kim said. Then he added sarcastically: "I've been wondering what to do with all my discretionary income."

"You'll be thanking me a thousandfold," Carl added, insensitive to Kim's tone of voice. "The stock is going to go through the roof. In a year's time the Onion Ring will be out there challenging McDonald's, Burger King, and Wendy's."

" Tracy mentioned you two are flying to Aspen on a private plane," Kim said, changing the subject. "What do you fly?"

"Me personally?" Carl questioned. "I don't fly. Hell, no! I'd be the last person to get into a plane with me behind the controls."

Carl laughed again with his peculiar style, making Kim wonder if the guy snored when he slept.

"I've a new Lear jet," Carl added. "Well, technically it's Foodsmart's, at least according to the IRS. Anyway, as you undoubtedly know, for such an aircraft the FAA mandates we have two highly qualified pilots."

"Of course," Kim said as if he were intimately aware of the rule. The last thing he wanted to do was reveal his ignorance of such things. Nor did he want to let on how angry it made him feel that a businessman who did nothing but shuffle paper could have such perks while he, who worked twelve hours a day on people's hearts, was having trouble keeping his decade-old Mercedes on the road.

A clatter of footfalls on the uncarpeted stairs heralded Becky's arrival. She had an overnight bag and her skates thrown over her shoulder. She dumped both onto a chair in the front hall before racing into the living room.

Kim hadn't seen Becky since the previous Sunday when they'd spent a happy day at a nearby ski area, and Becky acted accordingly. She made a beeline into Kim's arms and gave him an enthusiastic hug, momentarily making him lose his balance. With his face pressed up against her head, Kim could feel that her brunette hair was damp from a recent shower. The remnant odor of the shampoo made her smell like an apple orchard in bloom.

Without letting go of Kim, Becky leaned back and assumed a mock reproving expression. "You're late, Daddy."

Kim's aggravations of the day melted as he regarded his darling, precocious ten-year-old daughter who, in his mind, glowed with grace, youth, and energy. Her skin was flawless, her eyes large and expressive.

"I'm sorry, pumpkin," Kim said. "I understand you're hungry."

"I'm starved," Becky said. "But look!"

Becky turned her head from side to side. "See my new diamond earrings? Aren't they gorgeous? Carl gave them to me.

"Just chips," Carl said self-consciously. "Sort'a late Christmas present, and something for letting me borrow her mom for the weekend."

Kim swallowed. He was taken aback. "Very impressive," he managed.

Becky let go of Kim and went out into the foyer to gather her things and get her coat out of the front closet. Kim followed and went to the door.

"Now, I want you in bed at your normal time, young lady," Tracy said. "You understand? The flu's making the rounds."

"Oh, Mom!" Becky complained.

"I'm serious," Tracy said. "I don't want you missing school."

"Chill out, Mom," Becky said. "You have fun and don't be so nervous about…"

"I'll have a great time," Tracy said, interrupting her daughter before she could say something embarrassing. "But I'll have a better time if I don't have to worry about you. You have the phone number I gave you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Becky intoned. Then, brightening, she added: "Ski the Big Burn for me."

"Okay, I promise," Tracy said, as she took Becky's coat from her daughter's arms. "I want this on."

"But we'll be in the car," Becky complained.

"I don't care," Tracy said, helping her daughter into the coat.

Becky ran to Carl, who was standing in the doorway to the living room. She gave him a hug and got her mouth close to his ear. "She's real nervous, but she'll be okay. And thanks for the earrings. I love them."

"You're welcome, Becky" Carl said nonplussed.

Becky ran to Tracy and gave her a quick hug before dashing out the door held open by Kim.

Outside Becky ran down the stairs and waved to Kim to hurry up. Kim broke into a trot.

"Call if there's a problem." Tracy yelled from the porch.

Kim and Becky waved as they got into Kim's car.

"She's such a worrywart," Becky said, as Kim started the car. Then she pointed ahead, through the windshield. "That's a Lamborghini. It's Carl's car, and it's awesome."

"I'm sure it is," Kim said, trying not to sound as if he cared.

"You should get one, Dad." Becky said. She turned her head to look at the vehicle as they drove by.

"Let's talk about food," Kim said. "I was planning on picking up Ginger. I thought all three of us could go to Chez Lean."

"I don't want to eat with Ginger," Becky said poutingly.

Kim drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The stress of the day at the hospital, even the meeting with Carl, had him on edge. He wished he'd had time to play some tennis. He needed some form of physical outlet. The last thing he wanted was a problem between Becky and Ginger.

"Becky," Kim began. "We've been through this before. Ginger likes your company."

"I just want to be with you, not your receptionist," Becky complained.

"But you will be with me," Kim said. "We'll all be together. And Ginger is more than my receptionist."

"I don't want to eat at that stuffy old restaurant either," Becky said with emotion. "I hate it."

"Okay, okay," Kim said, struggling to control himself. "How about we go to the Onion Ring on Prairie Highway. Just you and me. It's just up the road."

"Fabulous!" Becky perked up, and despite her seat belt, she managed to lean over and give Kim a peck on the cheek.

Kim marveled at how adroitly his daughter could manipulate him. He felt better now that she had reverted to her normal, vivacious self, but after a few miles Becky's comment began to gnaw at him again. "For the life of me," Kim said, "I don't understand why you have this thing against Ginger."

"Because she made you and Mom break up," Becky commented.

"Good gravy," Kim snapped. "Is that what your mother says?"

"No," Becky said. "She says it was only part of it. But I think it was Ginger's fault. You guys hardly ever argued until Ginger."

Kim went back to drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Despite what Becky had said, he was certain Tracy had to have put the thought in her mind.

As he turned into the Onion Ring parking lot, Kim shot a glance in Becky's direction. Her face was awash in color from the huge Onion Ring sign. She was smiling in anticipation of their fast-food dinner.

"The reason your mother and I got divorced was very complicated," Kim began, "and Ginger had very little…"

"Look out!" Becky cried.

Kim redirected his gaze through the windshield and saw the blurry image of a pre-teen on a skateboard off the right front fender. Kim jammed on the brakes and threw the steering wheel over to the left. The car lurched to a stop but not before colliding with the rear of a parked car. There was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.

"You smashed the car!" Becky shouted as if it were a question.

"I know I smashed the car!" Kim shouted back.

"Well, it's not my fault," Becky said indignantly. "Don't yell at me!"

The skateboarder, who'd momentarily stopped, now passed in front of the car. Kim looked at the child, and the boy irreverently mouthed: "Asshole." Kim closed his eyes for a moment to control himself.

"I'm sorry," he said to Becky. "Of course it wasn't your fault. I should have been paying more attention. And I certainly shouldn't have yelled at you."

"What are we going to do?" Becky said. Her eyes anxiously scanned the parking area. She was terrified lest she see one of her schoolmates.

"I'm going to see what happened," Kim said as he opened his door and got out. He was back in seconds and asked Becky to hand him the registration packet from the glove compartment.

"What broke?" Becky asked as she handed over the papers.

"Our headlight and their tail light," Kim said. "I'll leave a note."

Once inside the restaurant, Becky immediately forgot the mishap. It being Friday night, the Onion Ring was mobbed. Most of the crowd were young teenagers in a ridiculous collection of oversized clothing and punk hairstyles. But there were also a number of families with lots of small children and even infants. The noise level was considerable thanks to fussy babies and competing ghetto blasters.

The Onion Ring restaurants were particularly popular with children mainly because the kids could doctor their own "gourmet" burgers with a bewildering display of condiments. They could also make their own sundaes with an equivalent number of toppings.

"Isn't this an awesome place?" Becky commented as she and Kim got into one of the order lines.

"Just delightful," Kim teased. "Especially with the quiet classical music in the background."

"Oh, Dad!" Becky moaned and rolled her eyes.

"Did you ever come here with Carl?" Kim asked. He really didn't want to hear the answer because he had an inkling she had.

"Sure," Becky offered. "He took Mom and me here a couple of times. It was cool. He owns the place."

"Not quite," Kim said with a certain satisfaction. "Actually the Onion Ring is a publicly owned company. Do you know what that means?"

"Sort of," Becky said.

"It means a lot of people own stock," Kim said. "Even I own stock, so I'm one of the owners too."

"Yeah, well, when I was here with Carl we didn't have to stand in line," Becky said.

Kim took a deep breath and let it out. "Let's talk about something else. Have you thought any more about skating in the Nationals? I know the entry deadline is coming up."

"I'm not going to enter," Becky said without hesitation.

"Really?" Kim questioned. "Why not, dear? You are such a natural. And you won the state junior championship last year so easily."

"I like skating," Becky said. "I don't want to ruin it."

"But you could be the best."

"I don't want to be the best in competition," Becky said.

"Gosh, Becky," Kim said. "I can't help but be a little disappointed. I'd be so proud of you."

"Mom said you would say something like that," Becky said.

"Oh, great!" Kim exclaimed. "Your know-it-all therapist mother."

"She also said that I should do what I think is best for me.

Kim and Becky found themselves at the front of the line. A bored teenage cashier gazed at them with glassy eyes and asked them what they wanted.

Becky looked up at the menu mounted over the bank of cash registers. She screwed up her mouth and stuck a finger in her cheek. "Hmmm… I don't know what I want."

"Have a burger," Kim said. "1 thought that was your favorite."

"Okay," Becky said. "I'll have a burger, fries, and a vanilla shake."

"Regular or jumbo?" the cashier asked in a tired voice.

"Regular." Becky said.

"And you, sir?" the cashier asked.

"Oh, hell, let me see," Kim said. He too looked up at the menu. "Soup du jour and salad, I guess. And an iced tea."

"Comes to seven ninety," the cashier said.

Kim paid, and the cashier handed him a receipt. "Your number is twenty-seven."

Kim and Becky turned around and left the order area. It took some hunting, but they found a couple of empty seats at one of the picnic-style tables near the window. Becky squeezed in, but not Kim. He handed her the receipt and told her he had to use the men's room. Becky nodded absently; she had her eye on one of the cute boys from her school who happened to be sitting at the next table.

It was like a broken-field run for Kim to make his way across the restaurant to the anteroom leading to the restrooms. There were two phones, but both were tied up by teenage girls. Behind each was a line. Kim reached into his jacket pocket and extracted his cell phone. He punched in the numbers, leaned back against the wall, and held it to his ear.

"Ginger, it's me," Kim said.

"Where the devil are you?" Ginger complained. "Have you forgotten our reservations at Chez Lean were for seven-thirty?"

"We're not going," Kim said. "I've had to change the plans. Becky and I are grabbing a bite at the Onion Ring on Prairie Highway."

Ginger didn't respond.

"Hello?" Kim said. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm still here," Ginger said.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Of course I heard," Ginger said. "I haven't eaten, and I've been waiting. You haven't called, and besides, you promised me we'd eat at Chez Jean tonight."

"Listen," Kim growled. "Don't you give me a hard time too. I can't please everybody. I was late picking up Becky, and she was starved."

"That's nice," Ginger said. "You and your daughter have a nice dinner together."

"You're irritating me, Ginger!"

"Well, how do you expect me to feel?" Ginger asked. "For a year your wife was your convenient excuse. Now I suppose it's going to be your daughter."

"That's enough, Ginger," Kim snapped. "I'm not going to get into an argument. Becky and I are eating here, and then we'll come by and pick you up.

"Maybe I'll be here and maybe I won't," Ginger said. "I'm getting tired of being taken for granted."

"Fine," Kim said. "You decide."

Kim cut off the connection and jammed the phone back into his jacket pocket. He gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath. The evening was hardly progressing as he would have liked. Kim's eyes involuntarily strayed to the face of a teenage girl waiting for one of the wall phones. Her lipstick was such a dark red it bordered on brown. It made her look like someone who'd succumbed to the elements on the north face of Mount Everest.

The girl caught Kim staring at her. She interrupted her cow-like gum-chewing long enough to stick out her tongue. Kim pushed off the wall and went into the men's room to splash water on his face and wash his hands.

The level of activity in the kitchen and service area of the Onion Ring was commensurate with the number of customers in the restaurant proper. It was controlled pandemonium. Roger Polo, the manager who regularly worked a double shift on Fridays and Saturdays, the Onion Ring's two busiest days, was a nervous man in his late thirties who drove himself and his staff hard.

When the restaurant was as busy as it was while Kim and Becky awaited their order, Roger worked the line. He was the one who gave the burger and fries order to the short-order chef, Paul; or the soup and salad orders to the steam-table and salad-bar worker, Julia; or the drink orders to Claudia. All the restocking and the routine, ongoing cleanup was done by the "gofer," Skip.

"Number twenty-seven coming up," Roger barked. "I want a soup and salad."

"Soup and salad," Julia echoed.

"Iced tea and vanilla shake," Roger called out.

"Coming up," Claudia said.

"Regular burger and medium fries," Roger ordered.

"Got it." Paul said.

Paul was considerably older than Roger. His face was leathered and deeply creased; he looked more like a farmer than a cook. He had spent twenty years as a short-order chef on an oil rig in the Gulf. On his right forearm was a tattoo of a gusher with the word: Eureka!

Paul stood at the grill built into a central island behind the row of cash registers. At any given time, he had a number of hamburger patties on the cooktop; each one was in response to an order. He organized the cooking by rotation so that all the burgers got the same amount of grill time. In response to the most recent wave of orders, Paul turned around and opened the chest-high refrigerator directly behind him.

"Skip!" Paul yelled when he realized the patty box was empty. "Get me a box of burgers from the walk-in."

Skip put his mop aside. "Coming up!"

The walk-in freezer was at the very back of the kitchen, next to the walk-in refrigerator and across from the storeroom. Skip, who'd only been working at the Onion Ring for a week, had found that a significant portion of his job was to carry various supplies from storage to the preparation area.

He opened the heavy freezer door and stepped within. The door was mounted with a heavy spring and closed behind him. The interior was about ten feet by twenty feet and illuminated by a single light bulb in a wire cage. The walls were surfaced in a metallic material that looked like aluminum foil. The floor was a wooden grate.

The space was almost full of cardboard containers except for a central aisle. To the left were the large cartons full of frozen hamburger patties. To the right were the boxes of frozen french fries, fish fillets, and chicken chunks.

Skip flapped his arms against the subzero chill. His breath came in frosted clouds. Wishing to get back to the warmth of the kitchen, he scraped away the frost from the label of the first carton to his left to make sure it was ground meat. It read: MERCER MEATS. REG. 0.1 LB HAMBURGER PATTIES, EXTRA LEAN. LOT 6 BATCH 9-14. PRODUCTION: JAN 12; USE BY APR. 12.

Reassured, Skip tore open the carton and lifted out one of the inner boxes that contained fifteen dozen patties. He carried them back to the refrigerator behind Paul and put them in.

"You're back in business," Skip said.

Paul didn't respond. He was too busy setting up the cooked burgers, while his mind kept a running account of the new orders Roger had given him. As soon as he could, he turned to the refrigerator, opened the patty box and extracted the number of burgers he needed. But as he was about to close the door, his eye caught the label.

"Skip!" Paul yelled. "Get your ass back here!"

"What's wrong?" Skip questioned. He'd not left the area, but had bent down to change the trash bag under the central island's rubbish disposal opening.

"You brought the wrong goddamn patties," Paul said. "These just came in today."

"What difference does it make?" Skip asked.

"Plenty," Paul said. "I'll show you in a second." He then called: "Roger, how many burgers you looking for after order twenty-six?"

Roger checked his tickets. "I need one burger for twenty-seven, four for twenty-eight. and three for twenty-nine. That's eight total."

"That's what I thought." Paul said. He tossed the eight patties he had in his hand onto the grill and turned around to get the box of patties out of the refrigerator. As preoccupied as he was, he didn't notice that the first patty he threw ended up partially covering another patty that was already on the grill.

Paul motioned for Skip to follow him and spoke while he walked. "We get shipments of frozen hamburger once every couple of weeks," he explained. "But we have to use the older ones first."

Paul opened the door to the walk-in freezer and was immediately confronted by the carton Skip had opened. Paul wedged the box he was carrying back into the carton and closed the lid.

"See this date?" Paul asked while pointing to the label.

"Yeah, I see it," Skip said.

"Those other cartons back there have an older date." Paul said. "They have to be used first."

"Somebody should have told me," Skip complained.

"I'm telling you now," Paul said. "Come on, help me move these new ones to the back and the ones in the back to the front."

Kim had returned from the restroom and had managed to squeeze his six-foot-plus frame into the seat next to Becky. There were six other individuals at the same table, including a two-year-old whose face was smeared with ketchup. He was busy beating his half-eaten hamburger with a plastic soupspoon.

"Becky, please be reasonable," Kim said while trying to ignore the two-year-old. "I told Ginger that we'd pick her up after we finished eating."

Becky took a breath and exhaled, slumping her shoulders. She was sulking, which was uncharacteristic for her.

"I mean, we've done what you wanted," Kim said. "We're eating together, just you and me, and it's not at Chez Lean."

"Well, you didn't ask me if I wanted to pick up Ginger," Becky said. "When you said we were coming here, I thought you meant we didn't have to see her tonight at all."

Kim looked off and tightened his jaw muscles. He loved his daughter, but he knew she could be frustratingly willful. As a cardiac surgeon, he was accustomed to people on his team following his orders.

Paul returned from the rearranging in the walk-in freezer to face an exasperated Roger.

"Where have you been?" Roger demanded. "We're way behind."

"Don't worry," Paul said. "Everything is under control."

Paul picked up his spatula and began slipping the fully cooked burgers into their respective buns. The patty that had been leaning up against another was pushed aside so that the one beneath could be removed.

"Ordering thirty," Roger barked. "Two regular burgers and one jumbo."

"Coming up," Paul said. He reached behind into the refrigerator to get the meat. Turning back around he tossed them onto the grill. He then used his spatula to pick up the patty that had been draped over another. Flipping it back onto the grill, it again landed so that it was leaning on another and not flat against the cooktop. Paul was about to adjust it when Roger got his attention.

"Paul, you screwed up!" Roger snapped. "What's wrong with you tonight?"

Paul looked up with his spatula suspended over the grill.

"Number twenty-five is supposed to be two jumbos not two regulars," Roger complained.

"Shit, sorry!" Paul said. He turned back to the refrigerator to get two jumbo patties. After he tossed them onto the grill he used his spatula to press them down. Jumbos needed twice the cook-time of the regular burgers.

"And number twenty-five was supposed to have a medium fries," Roger said irritably. He waved the ticket as if he were threatening Paul with it.

"You got it," Paul said. He quickly filled a paper cone with the potatoes.

Roger took the fries and put them on the number twenty-five tray and shoved it over to what was called the distribution counter. "Okay," Roger said to Paul. "Number twenty-seven's ready to go. Where's the burger and fries? Come on Paul, let's get on the ball."

"All right, already," Paul said. Paul used his spatula to scoop up the patty that had spent most of its grill-time on top of two other patties. He slipped it into a bun and placed it on the paper plate Roger had put on the countertop in front of him. Paul shoveled on some grilled onions, then filled another paper cone with french fries.

Within seconds the teenager on the distribution counter leaned over his goose-necked microphone and said: "Pick up, number twenty-five and number twenty-seven.

Kim stood up. "That's us," he said. "I'll get the food. But after we eat, we're going to pick up Ginger, and that's final. And I'm going to expect you to be pleasant. Okay?"

"Oh, all right," Becky said reluctantly. She stood up.

"I'll get the food," Kim said. "You stay put."

"But I want to fix my own burger," Becky said.

"Oh, yeah," Kim said. "I forgot."

While Becky dressed her burger with an impressive layer of various toppings, Kim picked out what he hoped would be the least offensive salad dressing. Then father and daughter returned to their seats. Kim was happy to see the ketchup-besmeared toddler had departed.

Becky perked up considerably when the boy from her school asked for some of her french fries. Kim picked up his soupspoon and was about to sample the soup when his cell phone rang against his chest. He took the phone out and put it to his ear.

"Dr. Reggis here," he said.

"This is Nancy Warren," the nurse said. "I'm calling because Mrs. Arnold demands that you come in to see her husband."

"What about?" Kim asked.

Becky used both hands to pick up her burger. Even so, a couple of sliced pickles fell out from beneath the layers of bread. Undaunted, she got her mouth around the behemoth and took a bite. She chewed for a moment, then examined the bitten surface.

"Mr. Arnold is very anxious," Nancy said. "And he says his pain medication isn't holding. He's also had a couple of PVC's."

Becky reached out and tugged on Kim's arm, trying to get him to look at the bitten surface of her burger. Kim motioned for her to wait while he continued his cellular phone conversation: "Has he had a lot of PVC's?"

"No, not a lot," Nancy said. "But enough so that he's aware of them."

"Draw a potassium and double-up on his pain meds. Is the intensivist there?"

"Yes, Dr. Silber is in the hospital," Nancy said. "But I think you should come in. Mrs. Arnold is insistent."

"I'll bet she is," Kim said with a dismissive chuckle. "But let's wait for the potassium level first. Also check and make sure there isn't any marked abdominal distension."

Kim disconnected his call. Mrs. Arnold was turning into a bigger pain in the neck than he'd imagined.

"Look at my hamburger," Becky said.

Kim glanced at Becky's burger and saw the ribbon of pink in the middle of the meat patty, but he was preoccupied and none too happy about the call he'd just gotten from the hospital. "Hmmm," he said. "That's the way I used to eat my hamburgers when I was your age."

"Really?" Becky questioned. "That's gross!"

Deciding it was best he speak directly to the intensivist himself, Kim dialed the hospital page number. "That was the only way I ate my hamburgers," he said to Becky as the call went through. "Medium rare, with a slice of raw onion, not with those reconstituted grilled onions, and certainly not with all that slop."

The hospital page operator answered, and Kim asked for Dr. Alice Silber. He said he'd hang on.

Becky looked at her burger, shrugged her shoulders, and then took another, more tentative bite. She had to admit, it tasted fine.