He slid as close to her as he dared and her breaths became gasps. She sounded like she was fighting for air.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” he announced.
“No!” she cried then gasped, “The syringe, did you fill the syringe?”
“Yes.”
“Full, Cal. Did you use it all?”
“Of course I f**king did.”
Her head twisted slowly and she looked at him, her eyes hazy but her voice was terrified when she whispered, “This is what it felt like when I didn’t take the injection. This is the burn. This is me boiling out of my skin,” she gasped then whimpered, terror stark in her tone like she didn’t know whether to scream or wail. “Cal, this has never happened while I’ve been taking the medication. Something’s wrong.”
Dread settled in his gut with the weight of an anvil and he declared again, “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“They won’t know how to treat me!” she cried. “The ER people won’t have even heard of this,” she moaned. “I’ve always been scared this would happen.” Then she released that animalistic whine again and Callum felt it score through his system.
“Your doctor,” he said suddenly.
She lifted her head and asked vaguely, “What?”
“Baby doll, your doctor will know what to do. Do you have his number?”
“In my phone, in my –”
She didn’t finish for Callum was out of bed and bounding down the stairs, literally. He planted a palm into the railing and leaped over the side coming to rest agilely on his feet on the landing. He did the same again from there and landed at the foot of the stairs.
He found her phone in her bag, the number in the phone and he rang it while he took the stairs, three at a time, going back up.
While Sonia, who’d thrown off the covers, looked to be fighting the battle of her life in the bed, Callum went through the rigmarole of phoning the on-call doctor who was not, regrettably, Sonia’s physician. This man took too long (in other words, more than ten seconds) to promise to contact Sonia’s doctor and they would be in touch urgently. The only positive thing that came from this was the fact that the on-call doctor seemed familiar with the lethal importance of Sonia’s illness and didn’t sound like he was f**king around.
Unable to touch her even to soothe her, Callum went to the bathroom and threw a towel in the tub, drenching it with cold water and not bothering to ring it out. He carried it to the bedroom and carefully threw it over her back.
“Yes,” she whimpered her relief, falling down to child’s pose under the large, wet towel, her arms stretched out in front of her.
Her phone rang and Callum snatched it from the receiver.
“Dr. Mortenson?” he clipped into the mouthpiece.
“You’re Sonia Arlington’s husband?” a man replied.
“Yes,” Callum ground out. “Is this Dr. Mortenson?”
“Yes, son. My colleague said she’s having a turn?”
A turn? He called this a f**king turn?
“She’s boiling to the touch and says she’s coming out of her skin.”
“Did she teach you how to administer an injection?”
“Yes,” Callum bit off curtly.
“Then give her an injection.”
“I did that five hours ago.”
“Do it again,” he replied calmly. “I’ll stay on the line.”