Jan Christopher hurried into room 212, double-checking the hastily scrawled name at the top of the chart. It has to be a coincidence. A deeper part of her mind responded, Not likely. "Bukwas" wasn't a common Kwakiutl name. In fact, even with all the reservation patients who passed through Vancouver General, she had encountered it only once before.
Her hopes died as she stepped into 212 and saw the slender Indian woman who glanced up at her with a lazy smile.
"Doctor Christopher. I'm so glad you could make it."
Jan slapped the clipboard onto the table by the bed. The other patient in the room, an eighty-year-old man with Alzheimer's, stirred and mumbled, "Eh? Wassat?"
Forcing her voice to remain calm, Jan grabbed the rail of the bed with both hands. "What are you doing here, Celeste?"
"I thought it was your job to tell me, doctor," she replied mildly.
You are not going to march in here and mess up this part of my life too, Jan thought furiously. "You've got one minute to get out. After that I'm calling security."
"What will you tell them? 'Take her away before she drains your blood?' Really, Jan. After everything you've lost, you should be more careful--that sort of craziness is likely to cost you your job."
Hippocratic Oath be damned. At that moment, Jan wanted nothing more than to wrap her hands around Celeste's throat and squeeze until the last trace of pseudo-life drained from those obsidian eyes. But the rational part of her mind knew what the results would be.
Apparently sensing the fury racing through Jan's veins, Celeste held up a hand in a sign of truce. "Believe me, the list of places I'd rather be right now is endless. I don't even know how I got here."
"What?"
)
