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She didn’t even look up from the wash cloth she was wringing out to bathe the skin of her patient as I approached, and at first all I could see of her was the dark skin on the back of her neck and some steel-wool textured hair beneath the brightly colored headwrap.
“If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time,” she said, her hands angrily twisting the washcloth. “You’d do better to get on the horn to the CDC and find out if any of their new young hot-shots has any idea how to mitigate the speed of this onset. I have children who are playing happily on Day One and by Day Three are either comatose and staring blankly, or babbling incoherently with a terrifyingly high fever.”
She glared upward at me.
“And if they could get their thumbs out of their asses long enough to arrange a fresh drop of basic medical supplies, that’d be PEACHY.”
I took a step back. Paused. Straightened up from my usual slouch, even though her words felt like a slap in the stomach.
“Uh, well, some of those descriptors aren’t accurate, but I actually AM here from the CDC, via StarkIndustries. And we managed to bring in most of the supplies you were requesting... Doctor St. Pierre?”
She softened her glare to merely suspicious, and nodded once, looking away.
“I’m Doctor Bruce Banner. We’re here to help.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the young interns and nurses who came with me in the Quinjet. My hand combed through the damp hair at the back of my neck, warm already with the heat of this desert, only an hour past sunrise.
“Where do you want us to start?”
Victoria St. Pierre rose from her low stool next to the child’s cot, nodded again, scrubbed at her face with her left hand, and extended her right hand. I took it, and we shook briefly.
“Doctor Banner." She exhaled slowly. "Thank you for coming. I apologize for my rudeness, but we’ve lost nine children in four days, we’ve no idea of the disease vector, and twelve more have come down sick.” Her gaze took in the rest of the cots in the medical tent. “Let’s begin by you telling me about the new staff and supplies you’ve brought us, and I’ll bring you up to speed about the protocols we’ve been using to help ease the children’s symptoms.”
I held the flap of the tent for her to exit. She inclined her head gracefully and moved out into the sunlight.
(This is my entry for the Home Game version of LJ Idol, this week's prompt was "If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time")
“If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time,” she said, her hands angrily twisting the washcloth. “You’d do better to get on the horn to the CDC and find out if any of their new young hot-shots has any idea how to mitigate the speed of this onset. I have children who are playing happily on Day One and by Day Three are either comatose and staring blankly, or babbling incoherently with a terrifyingly high fever.”
She glared upward at me.
“And if they could get their thumbs out of their asses long enough to arrange a fresh drop of basic medical supplies, that’d be PEACHY.”
I took a step back. Paused. Straightened up from my usual slouch, even though her words felt like a slap in the stomach.
“Uh, well, some of those descriptors aren’t accurate, but I actually AM here from the CDC, via StarkIndustries. And we managed to bring in most of the supplies you were requesting... Doctor St. Pierre?”
She softened her glare to merely suspicious, and nodded once, looking away.
“I’m Doctor Bruce Banner. We’re here to help.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the young interns and nurses who came with me in the Quinjet. My hand combed through the damp hair at the back of my neck, warm already with the heat of this desert, only an hour past sunrise.
“Where do you want us to start?”
Victoria St. Pierre rose from her low stool next to the child’s cot, nodded again, scrubbed at her face with her left hand, and extended her right hand. I took it, and we shook briefly.
“Doctor Banner." She exhaled slowly. "Thank you for coming. I apologize for my rudeness, but we’ve lost nine children in four days, we’ve no idea of the disease vector, and twelve more have come down sick.” Her gaze took in the rest of the cots in the medical tent. “Let’s begin by you telling me about the new staff and supplies you’ve brought us, and I’ll bring you up to speed about the protocols we’ve been using to help ease the children’s symptoms.”
I held the flap of the tent for her to exit. She inclined her head gracefully and moved out into the sunlight.
(This is my entry for the Home Game version of LJ Idol, this week's prompt was "If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time")
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