Nurse? Dr. Luther asked.
One moment, she begged. Before you start napping, Gilbert Henry whod rather be called just Henry, let me write your information down for safekeeping-so the nurse on the next shift will know all about you.
If you . . . like, maam.
Thats a good man, and a fine patient, she praised him without looking at him. So tell me quickly, have you got a mother waiting for you back home? Or . . . or, she almost choked. A wife?
No wife. A mother . . . though. And . . . a . . . brother, still . . . a . . . boy.
She wondered how hed made it this far in such bad shape-if hed clung to life this long purely with the goal of the hospital in mind, thinking that if he made it to Robertson, hed be all right.
A mother and a little brother. Their names?
Abigail June. Maiden . . . name . . . Harper.
She stalked his words with the pencil nub, scribbling as fast as she could in her graceless, awkward script. Abigail June, born Harper. Thats your mother, yes? And what town?
Memphis. I joined . . . up. In Memphis.
A Tennessee boy. Those are just about my favorite kind, she said.
Just about?
She confirmed, Just about. She set the noteboard aside, back up against the leg of the cot, and retrieved the gas. Now, Mr. Gilbert Henry, are you ready?
He nodded bravely and weakly.
Very good, dear sir. Just breathe normally, if you dont mind- She added privately, And insofar as youre able. Thats right, very good. And I want you to count backwards, from the number ten. Can you do that for me?
His head bobbed very slightly. Ten, he said, and the word was muffled around the blown glass shape of the mask. Ni . . .
And that was it. He was already out.
Mercy sighed heavily. The doctor said quietly, Turn it off.
Im sorry?
The gas. Turn it off.
She shook her head. But if youre going to take the arm, he might need-
Im not taking the arm. Theres no call to do it. No sense in it, he added. He mightve said more, but she knew what he meant, and she waved a hand to tell him no, that she didnt want to hear it.
You
cant just let him lie here.
Mercy, Dr. Luther said more tenderly. Youve done him a kindness. Hes not going to come around again. Taking the arm would kill him faster, and maim him, too. Let him nap it out, peacefully. Let his family bury him whole. Watch, he said.
She was watching already, the way the broad chest rose and fell, but without any rhythm, and without any strength. With less drive. More infrequently.
The doctor stood and wrapped his stethoscope into a bundle to jam in his pocket. I didnt need to listen to his lungs to know hes a goner, he explained, and bent his body over Gilbert Henry to whisper at Mercy. And I have three other patients-two of whom might actually survive the afternoon if were quick enough. Sit with him if you like, but dont stay long. He withdrew, and picked up his bag. Then he said in his normal voice, He doesnt know youre here, and he wont know when you leave. You know it as well as I do.
She stayed anyway, lingering as long as she dared.
He didnt have a wife to leave a widow, but he had a mother somewhere, and a little brother. He hadnt mentioned a father; any father had probably died years ago, in the same damn war. Maybe his father had gone like this, too-lying on a cot, scarcely identified and in pieces. Maybe his father had never gotten home, or word had never made it home, and hed died alone in a field and no one had even come to bury him for weeks, since that was how it often went in the earlier days of the conflict.
One more ragged breath crawled into Henrys throat, and she could tell-just from the sound of it, from the critical timbre of that final note-that it was his last. He didnt exhale. The air merely escaped in a faint puff, passed through his nose and the hole in his side. And the wide chest with the curls of dark hair poking out above the undershirt did not rise again.
She had no sheet handy with which to cover him. She picked up the noteboard and set it facedown on his chest, which would serve as indicator enough to the next nurse, or to the retained men, or whoever came to clean up after her.
Mercy, Dr. Luther called sharply. Bring the cart.
Coming, she said, and she rose, and arranged the cart, retrieving the glass mask and resetting the valves. She felt numb, but only as numb as usual. Next. There was always another one, next.
She swiveled the cart and positioned it at the next figure, groaning and twisting on a squeaking cot that was barely big enough to hold him. Once more, she pasted a smile in place. She greeted the patient. Well, arent you a big son of a gun. Hello there, Im Nurse Mercy.
He groaned in response, but did not gurgle or wheeze. Mercy wondered if this one wouldnt go better.
She retrieved his noteboard with its unfilled forms and said, I dont have a name for you yet, dear. Whatd your mother call you?
Silas, he spit through gritted teeth. Newton. Private First Class. His voice was strong, if strained.
Silas, she repeated as she wrote it down. Then, to the doctor, What are we looking at here?