Fireflies - By David Morrell Page 0,35

streamed down his face. “Matt’s just a kid! How can he be so strong?”

“You’re proving my point,” the neurologist said. “After six months of constant chaos, your body finally told you it reached its limit. Imagine if you’d almost been in a traffic accident. A truck veers toward you, forcing your car off the road. You manage to stop an instant before you hit a tree. What’s your reaction? Your stomach feels on fire. Your heart races. You can’t catch your breath. In effect, you’ve been having that near-accident for the past six months. I could give you a lot of technical words about neurotransmitters in your arteries and the nucleus locus ceruleus in your brain, but basically what it comes down to is, your crisis glands have been working constantly, to the maximum. And you’ve become used to it. You think it’s normal, because for the last six months, it’s all you’ve known. You’re so saturated with adrenaline your body can’t deal with the chemical effects any longer. You’re hyperventilating, and that makes your heart pump faster, and that makes you dizzy. Of course the dizziness makes you more afraid. That in turn makes you hyperventilate more extremely, and that in turn makes your heart pound faster and … you’re trapped in a terrifying, worsening, self-perpetuating circle. The more your crisis glands pump, the more they will pump because they’re reinforced by fear. A panic attack. And if the cycle isn’t stopped, the ultimate consequence is total physical collapse and possible catatonia.”

The neurologist paused. “One more thing. In a panic attack, the patient usually feels tingling only in his hands, but you described tingling in your feet as well, and that makes this one of the most extreme examples of a panic attack I’ve ever diagnosed. You need rest. A lot of it. Now.”

“But my son …”

“Is under constant professional care. In the four hours you’ve been down here …”

What? David thought, pulse rising. Four hours? It seemed as if he’d been in the Emergency Ward for only forty-five minutes.

“In the four hours you’ve been down here,” the neurologist continued, “I’ve asked for several reports on your son’s condition. His physicians tell me he’s doing fine. He’s weak, but that’s to be expected, given what he’s been through. The main thing is, he’s stable, and his treatment seems to be effective.”

“No! He’s going to die!”

“Should I call for help?” the resident asked.

The neurologist studied David.

“Maybe we ought to sedate him,” the resident added.

“No,” David said. “No, please, don’t sedate me. Don’t put me to sleep. My son …”

The neurologist scribbled on a prescription pad. “But sleep’s exactly what you need. Your daughter can have this filled at the hospital pharmacy. I’m prescribing Valium for you.”

“Valium?”

“Whatever you’ve heard about the drug, don’t let the name shock you,” the neurologist said. “Don’t give yourself another attack. These pills won’t knock you out. But they will make you groggy. You’ll feel like taking a nap. You’ll wake up calmer, rested. After your daughter gets this prescription filled, I want her to take you home and put you to bed. And to make sure you take the medication.”

“But my son … !”

“Two days from now, you’ll adjust to the medication. You’ll feel a little slow perhaps, but much less excited, and you’ll be able to function. By then, you can come back and visit your son, as long as you don’t try to drive. In the meantime, your wife will be with your son. The doctors will supervise him constantly. He’s in good hands. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Two days from now? David thought.

Two days from now?

But that’ll be too late!

3

The glass doors hissed open. A nurse pushed David in a wheelchair from the Emergency Ward. Beneath a concrete canopy, in a curve of the driveway where hours earlier David had seen attendants unloading a patient from an ambulance, Sarie was waiting in her yellow Fiesta.

The nurse stopped the wheelchair, opened the Fiesta’s passenger door, and eased David inside.

His every movement remained an effort. His vision continued to swirl. Nonetheless he noticed Sarie move a small white paper bag—a pharmacist’s green bill was stapled to it—off the passenger seat so he could get in.

The nurse shut the door. “Get some rest now, Mr. Morrell.” She added to Sarie, “Make sure he takes those pills. Put him to bed as soon as he gets home.”

“Don’t worry,” Sarie said. “I guarantee my Dad’ll be a model patient.”

Sarie put the Fiesta in gear, then steered around