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instantly by a red one from the lower. The beams intersected at a spot just above Russell Cowley’s lowest left rib, and disappeared into his chest.
    For five seconds, ten, there was nothing.
    Eric shifted nervously and moved forward with the cardiac needle.
    “More power?” he asked.
    “I don’t think so, Doc,” Subarsky replied.
    “Jesus. Okay, I’m going in,” Eric said. “Someone page the cardiac people.
Stat
.”
    “Wait!” June Feldman was staring down at her fingertips. “Wait … Yes, I’ve got a pulse. I’ve got a pulse.”
    At virtually the same instant, the central venous pressure level began to drop. The arterial pressure monitor kicked in at 70 over 30. Seconds later, it read 90.
    Subarsky, cool as snow, nodded as if the whole affair were routine, but two of the nurses began to applaud.
    “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life,” one of them exclaimed. “Never.”
    “Neither have I,” Eric muttered, softly enough for no one to hear.
    Russell Cowley’s coloring improved almost as dramatically as had his blood pressure and CVR His breathing grew strong and steady. And within two minutes, his eyes fluttered open.
    No one spoke. Eric studied the faces around him. Their expressions were a wonderful mix of awe and jubilation. It was the prolonged silence of a concert audience who had just experienced the music of a master.
    And Eric relished every bit of it.
    Through the open doorway, he saw Terri Dillard approaching.
    No, not yet, dammit
, his thoughts hollered.
This is my moment. Not yet
.
    “Everything okay?” Terri asked.
    “Look for yourself.”
    He motioned toward Cowley.
    “Nice going. Eric, the cardiac people are on their way down. You’ve really got to come in and help Kaiser.”
    “Lord. Any change in the diver?”
    “No.”
    “So what’s to help?”
    “Eric, please.”
    “Okay, okay. June, have the cardiac service admit this guy to them with ortho as consult. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He glanced over at Terri. “Maybe sooner.”

    Gary Kaiser annoyed Eric more than any resident he had ever known. He was immature, indecisive, and nervous as hell in all but the most routine situations.
    It was no surprise to see him running a full Code 99 on a derelict who looked as if he had been dead for hours.
    “Gary, what gives?” Eric asked.
    The scene was subdued, in sharp contrast to the action and energy surrounding Russell Cowley. A nurse was doing CPR while a respiratory therapist was ventilating the man through an endotracheal tube. Nursing supervisor Norma Cullinet was assisting another nurse in keeping notes on the code and administering meds.
    Kaiser, a rosy-cheeked enlargement of the Pillsbury Doughboy, glanced down at the EKG machine.
    “Nothing,” he said.
    “Nothing? Do you think this is the result of a coronary?”
    “I … I imagine so.”
    The EKG pattern showed a straight line with an ineffectual electrical pulse every ten or fifteen seconds. It was the sort of complex that often persisted for hours after a patient was clinically dead.
    “Who is this man?”
    Reflexively, Eric motioned the nurse to stop her CPR while he checked the man’s groin and neck for pulses. There were none. He motioned her to start up again.
    “A John Doe,” Kaiser said. “We’ve been working on him for almost fifteen minutes.”
    “Why?”
    “Why?” Kaiser shifted nervously. “Well, he had those beats on his EKG.”
    “Those beats mean nothing more than a dead heart.”
    “And … and his temp was only ninety-six. I … I thought we should try to warm him up a bit before calling off the code.”
    As usual, Kaiser was performing mindless, cookbook medicine. It was a maxim in most hypothermic situations to warm the patient before calling off a resuscitation. But ninety-six was hardly hypothermia, and this man was clearly beyond help.
    “So,” Eric said, “what do you want to do?”
    He checked the man’s pupils, which were wide and lifeless.
    “Do?