Chapter 5: The Resistance

Oceano, California

October 29, 2000

Jake and Laura had been able to resume their sexual relationship since he had come home from the hospital, but not with the same vigor as before—not yet anyway. Their coupling had to be gentler, slower, and performed in the female superior position with Laura careful not to put her hands on his shoulders and with Jake careful not to lean too far forward to suckle on her breasts. For the most part, Laura was responsible for doing the moving in these circumstances, and was responsible for her own orgasms while Jake was inside of her. Fortunately, she was pretty good at finding the right rhythm and pressure to accomplish this.

They enjoyed such a coupling on this Sunday night, putting their respective parts together after Caydee had been put to bed and Meghan had retired for the night. Or at least Laura enjoyed the coupling. She managed to grind out one and then two orgasms while riding her husband’s erection in their marital bed.

“Okay, sweetie,” she told him tenderly, her skin flushed and covered in a sheen of perspiration, “your turn now. Fill me up.”

“Right,” he panted, out of breath despite the fact that he was not doing much exertion.

Laura gave him her best moves, her goal to draw that orgasm from him and feel him shooting his stuff up inside of her. She would then fall into a contented sleep, cuddled up again him. Jake enjoyed the sensation of her moving atop him, enjoyed the friction of her tight wetness sliding up and down. His manhood remained erect and in the game. But the machinery of orgasm simply would not kick into gear. No matter what he thought about, no matter how much he willed himself to release, it simply would not happen. Laura began to grow visibly tired atop him, her moves becoming more erratic, slower, a look of frustration appearing on her face.

Jake finally called a halt to the encounter. “It’s just not gonna happen tonight, hon,” he told her apologetically.

“Are you sure?” she asked, concerned. “I can keep going. Or I could use my mouth.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think that will do any good,” he said. “It’s just not there right now.”

Laura did not like this. Jake had never failed to have an orgasm while having sex with her—not unless it was the third one in a string anyway, and that hardly counted. “Was it something I did?” she asked, automatically blaming herself for the failure.

“No, no,” Jake assured her, “not at all. It’s just one of those things that happens sometimes. I really enjoyed what you were doing. You were wonderful. It’s that my mind won’t kick into gear for some reason.”

“Was it the pain?” she asked, still sitting on his erection, but no longer moving. She could feel it starting to soften up inside of her now.

“Maybe indirectly,” he said. “It was kind of bad tonight so I took an extra pain pill. The pain is better now but maybe that extra little bit of Norco is keeping my brain from taking the final step. I’ve heard things like that can happen.”

She sighed and pulled herself off of him. She then snuggled up against him on his uninjured side, keeping the blankets pulled down for now. She wanted the ceiling fan and the sea breeze blowing in the open window to dry the sweat from her skin a little first. “Jake, sweetie,” she said, “shouldn’t the pain be getting better instead of worse?”

He sighed. “Yeah, I guess it should,” he admitted.

“You need to see the doctor, sweetie. Something is not right.”

“I have the appointment on Wednesday with Dr. Owens’ PA,” Jake reminded her. “He’s going to look at the wounds and pull all the stitches out. He’ll be able to tell us if anything is wrong.”

“That’s three days from now,” Laura said. “And you still haven’t had your lab draw. I want you to get the lab draw done tomorrow. First thing. Promise me.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll get the labs drawn tomorrow.”

“And I want you to see Dr. Marlin too,” she told him. Dr. Marlin was both his and Laura’s primary care physician who worked out of an office building on the campus of Baptist Hospital of San Luis Obispo. Laura had met up with him several times. Jake had only seen him once since being accepted as a patient. And that had been the required initial visit.

“Assuming I can even get an appointment, what is he going to do?” Jake asked.

“You know his office will give you an immediate appointment if you name drop,” Laura told him. “And he’s a doctor. He can look at you, read your labs, and tell you if you’re having some kind of post-operative problem, as it looks like you are.”

“I’m just healing from the trauma,” Jake told her, not for the first time.

“When you’re healing you’re supposed to feel better, not worse. And the way you’re going, you’re not going to be able to fly us to Santa Barbara for your appointment on Wednesday. Promise me you will call first thing in the morning and make an appointment with him and then go get your labs drawn.”

“But...”

“Promise me, Jake,” she told him sternly.

A sigh. “All right,” he said. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a gentle kiss on the mouth.

As it turned out however, this was a promise he was unable to keep.

At 4:35 AM, Jake woke up from a fitful sleep. He was freezing cold and shivering. Chills racked his entire body. Laura was asleep beside him but had rolled away from him at some point during the night so they were no longer touching. That was a bit odd. They usually stayed in physical contact with each other throughout the night. Jake did not ponder this thought too much. He simply moved toward her, seeking out her body heat to help warm him up. As he rolled, the pain in his right armpit and chest slammed into him. It felt even worse now than it had in the immediate post-surgical period.

What in the fuck? he wondered nervously. Laura was right. He really should be feeling better instead of worse.

Laura woke up the moment he put his body against hers. She stiffened against him. “Jake? Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m freezing,” he told her, his teeth chattering madly.

“No, you’re not,” she countered. “You’re burning up. You feel like an oven.”

“I feel like a freezer,” he corrected. “I need another blanket on me.”

She rolled away from him. As she did, his shoulders were jostled and another wave of pain went rippling through him. “Owww! Jesus Christ!” he parked.

“The pain?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he panted. “Can you get me a pain pill?”

“Not right now,” she said. “You’re running a fever, sweetie. It feels like a pretty high one.”

“What does that have to do with a pain pill?” he asked, frustrated, his mind not making a connection. It seemed a little fuzzy just now.

“You have a fever!” she barked at him. “That was one of the things they specifically warned you about when you were sent home from the hospital. Any fever and you need to go to the hospital immediately.”

“I don’t think I have a fever,” Jake argued. “I feel cold, not hot.”

“You feel pretty fucking hot to me,” she returned. “Now let’s get dressed. I’m taking you to the hospital right now.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” he told her. “I don’t feel good.”

“That is when you are supposed to go to the hospital,” she explained carefully. “No more arguing. We’re going.”

He did not argue any further. In truth, he felt like death warmed over. Maybe Laura was right. Maybe something was wrong.

Laura got out of bed and turned on the light. Jake winced at the brightness, which sent a spike of new pain driving through his brain. “Jesus,” he whined. “That’s bright.”

“Sorry,” Laura said. She was still naked from their earlier activity, as was Jake. She quickly pulled a pair of royal blue panties out of the dresser and slid them up her legs. She pulled out a matching bra and fastened that around her boobs. Next, she pulled a pair of jeans from the closet and slid them on. She put on a pullover sweater and then quickly tied her hair into a loose ponytail. She put on shoes and socks and then returned to the dresser. “Let’s get you dressed, sweetie,” she said, pulling out a pair of underwear and his winter running sweats.

Jake felt dizzy and weak the moment he sat up in bed. His breathing rate increased as it felt like he was not getting enough air. Laura looked at him with concern as he seemed to gray out on her for a bit.

“Maybe I should just call 911,” she suggested.

“No,” Jake said, shaking his head vigorously. “I’ll be all right. Just give me a second.”

She gave him a full sixty seconds and he did indeed seem to get his equilibrium back. He was able to stand and put the underwear and the sweats on. She then grabbed a short sleeve shirt for him.

“I need my heavy sweater,” Jake told her. “I’m freezing.”

“You need a light shirt,” she countered. “You have a fever and we don’t want to make you hotter. Remember what they told us when Caydee had a fever? Don’t bundle her up. You’re just a bigger Caydee right now. We’re not bundling you up.”

“I guess,” he grunted. What he really wanted to do right now was to go out and sit in the hot tub with its one hundred and one degree water. That would make him stop shivering. Maybe if he just did that he would feel better and not have to go to the hospital? But he had been forbidden from getting into the hot tub until the stitches were out and the wound completely closed.

“Put the shirt on, Jake,” Laura told him, handing it to him.

“Right,” he grunted, vaguely realizing that he was having a hard time concentrating. He pulled it over his head and then lifted up his right arm carefully to put it through the sleeve. Experience had taught him that putting the injured side in first hurt less. As he did the maneuver, however, Laura gasped a little.

“Oh my God,” she said. “What is that?”

“What is what?” he asked.

“Your surgical wound,” she said. “It’s splitting open.”

“It is?” he looked down at it, craning his head to do so. He saw that the wound had indeed split open about a centimeter, stretching and ripping a few of the sutures. And there was a thick, greenish fluid oozing out of it. “Oh ... wow,” he said slowly. “That doesn’t look right.”

“No,” Laura said, nibbling her lip a little. “It really doesn’t.” She looked very worried now. She got up and walked over to the dresser again. She pulled out a pair of clean socks and grabbed Jake’s Nike tennis shoes from the shoe rack. She carried both over to him. “Can you put your shoes and socks on, sweetie?” she asked. “I need to let Meghan and Elsa know what’s going on before we go.”

“Yeah, of course,” he said breathlessly.

She left the room to go call Elsa on the phone and then knock on Meghan’s door to let her know the situation. Both expressed concern at what she told them. Elsa promised to take care of the house. Meghan assured her that she would get Caydee up and watch her for as long as necessary. Both told her to update them as soon as she knew something.

When she returned to the bedroom, Jake was still sitting on the edge of the bed. He had managed to get one sock on but was still struggling with the other. She helped him and got him ready to travel, grabbing his wallet and stuffing it in the pocket of his sweats.

“Come on, sweetie,” she told him. “Walk with me.”

He walked with her, doing it slowly, feeling dizzy and out of breath. She held onto his left arm as they made the trip. She grabbed her purse and car keys off the table near the garage door and led him out into the garage. The lights came on automatically when they entered the space.

Jake realized after a moment that she was leading him over to the Toyota Sienna instead of his BMW. “No!” he said firmly. “We take my car.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped at him. “It’ll be much easier to get you in and out of the van than your car. Now get inside.”

“No minivan!” he insisted.

“Get your ass in the van, Jake!” she barked at him, ripping the door open and pointing to the front passenger seat.

Jake took a deep breath. “This is humiliating,” he grumbled.

He sat down in the passenger side of the hated vehicle. The seat was quite comfortable. Laura helped him put his seatbelt on and then closed the door. A few moments later, she was in the driver’s seat and firing up the six-cylinder engine. She used the remote to open the garage door and backed out onto the portion of the circular driveway. A few moments later they were heading down the access road.

Jake continued to shiver and shake and feel miserable body aches along with the ache in his right armpit and shoulder as they made the twenty minute trip. The lights of passing cars sent daggers of pain into his eyeballs. The radio in the van was tuned to the local smooth jazz station that was operated by students at Cal-Poly. Bobby Z’s song I’ll Call You Tomorrow came on.

“Hey,” Jake said between racking shivers, “I sang that song when we were out with Z. Remember that shit, hon?”

“I remember, sweetie,” she told him, her voice very worried. “You were awesome.”

“That’s what they say,” he said, chuckling a bit. He really was feeling not quite in his head—almost like he was extremely drunk.

They pulled into the emergency department entrance of Baptist Hospital of San Luis Obispo at 5:15 AM. Laura parked in a loading area just outside the main doors.

“Don’t let anyone see me in this van,” Jake told her, his teeth chattering again.

“I’m going to go get you a wheelchair, sweetie,” she told him. “Wait here.”

“Okay,” he agreed.

Laura stepped out of the van and walked quickly to the entrance, passing through the sliding doors. Jake watched her go. Once she disappeared from his view, he closed his eyes and kind of faded out a bit.

Laura entered the reception area of the emergency room. Just inside the doors was a row of wheelchairs. Just beyond this was the waiting room. There were perhaps two dozen people sitting in the chairs out here, all of them looking impatient and angry. A few were holding bloody bandages to their faces or to other parts of their bodies. One was vomiting into a little green bag. Two people were actually laying on the floor, one of them rolling around in a dramatic manner. A large, overweight woman was sitting in one of the wheelchairs moaning loudly in a continuous rhythm that sounded like the fake sex moans in a 1970s porn movie. Two security guards were keeping an eye on things impassively. Two registration people were working behind windows at the main desk. It was a very chaotic looking place.

“Is it okay if I take one of these wheelchairs to bring my husband in?” Laura asked the closest guard.

He looked at her impassively. “Does he need a wheelchair?” he asked.

“Uh ... yeah,” she said. “Why else would I ask for one?”

He waved at the row of chairs. “Help yourself,” he told her, not asking if she needed any help or enquiring what was wrong with her husband.

“Thanks,” she grunted.

She grabbed one of the chairs and wheeled it out through the doors and back to the minivan. When she opened the passenger side door Jake was unconscious. She had to shake him a few times to bring him awake. He opened his eyes slowly and looked over at her.

“Oh ... hey, babe,” he said miserably. “I kind of feel like shit.”

“I know, sweetie,” she said. “Let’s get you out of there and into the wheelchair.”

“Right,” he said. “No one saw me in the van, did they?”

“No one saw you in the van,” she assured him.

Jake was wobbly on his feet but he managed to step out and, with her help, pivot so he could sit down in the wheelchair. Laura felt how hot his skin was as she assisted him and her worries kicked up a few notches. He’s burning up with fever. What the hell is going on?

She locked up the van and then pushed the chair up a small ramp and back through the doors into the lobby of the ER. “Where do we go from here?” she asked the security guard she had talked to before.

“Talk to the registration people first,” he told her tonelessly. He pointed in the direction of their counter.

Laura wheeled him over. A young, pretty woman dressed in a baby blue blazer was sitting behind the first counter they came to. “Hello,” she said. “Are you here to see the doctor?”

“Yes,” Laura said with a sigh. “We’re here to see the doctor. My husband is sick.”

“Okay,” the clerk said. “His last name?”

“Kingsley,” she said.

“And how do you spell that?”

Laura spelled it for her.

“First name?”

“Jacob,” she said. She then spelled that as well.

“Date of birth?”

“March 7, 1960,” Laura said.

The clerk typed all of this into her computer without batting an eye. And then she looked up at the man in the wheelchair for the first time and her eyes got wide. “Jacob Kingsley,” she said softly. “You mean... Jake Kingsley?”

“That’s what people call him, yes,” Laura confirmed.

“The Jake Kingsley?”

“The Jake Kingsley,” she confirmed.

“Wow,” she said, seemingly stunned. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s recovering from a gunshot wound as you might have heard,” Laura said patiently. “Tonight, he started running a high fever and is having green stuff coming out of his surgical site.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” the clerk said.

“You think?” Laura asked. “I think he’s having a post-op infection.”

“Sounds like it,” the clerk agreed.

“Right,” Laura said. “So ... how about we get this show on the road here, okay?”

“Oh ... yeah, of course,” the clerk said. She turned back to her screen and typed a few more things. She frowned at it for a moment. “Has he ever been here as a patient before?”

“No,” Laura said.

“That explains why he’s not in the computer,” she said. “Let me generate a chart for him real quick and then I’ll call the triage nurse.”

“Sounds good,” she said. While the clerk worked on this, she turned back to Jake. “Doing okay, sweetie?”

“I’m so cold,” he said. “Can I have a blanket?”

“No blanket,” Laura told him. “Remember, no bundling up.”

“Oh ... right,” he said. “What a rip.”

A few minutes later, multiple printers began to whir behind the clerk. When they finished their runs, she gathered up a whole collection of paperwork, bundled it together, and then put it on a clipboard. She then ripped a sheet of about a dozen labels from a label printer. One of them, she tore off and stuck to white arm band. The rest, she clipped to the clipboard atop the paperwork. The armband, she kept. “Can he put his arm up on my desk?” she asked.

Jake dutifully did so without looking up or speaking. She fastened it around his wrist.

“All right,” the clerk said. “I got you checked in. One of us will be back later to collect demographics and insurance information and all that.”

“Sounds good,” Laura said. “What now?”

“I’m going to call the triage nurse and let her know you’re here.”

“Okay.”

The clerk pushed a button on a little black device clipped to her blue top. It made a chiming noise. She spoke the word “triage nurse” into it. A moment later a female voice spoke out of it.

“Triage,” the voice said.

“One new patient,” the clerk said. “Possible post-op infection.”

“Okay,” the voice said wearily. “I’ll be there when I get a minute.”

“It’s Jake Kingsley,” the clerk nearly whispered.

A moment passed, and then: “The Jake Kingsley?”

“That’s correct,” the clerk said. “And he looks pretty sick.”

“I’ll be right there,” the triage nurse said.

Things moved rather quickly after that. A chubby, mid-thirties nurse in blue scrubs came through a doorway and walked over to where Jake and Laura were parked. She looked down at Jake, her eyes widening a bit, and then over at Laura. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Andie, the triage nurse. Are you Mrs. Kingsley?”

“I am,” Laura said.

Andie took the clipboard from the registration clerk. “Follow me,” she said. “Let’s get him checked in.”

Andie led the way and Laura pushed the wheelchair. They went through a doorway into a small room. Inside, there was a desk, a vital signs machine, an eye chart on the wall, an infant scale, a stand-up scale, a sink, and some cabinets with supplies. The entire room smelled of stale marijuana and alcohol breath with a hint of vomit and urine. Andie had Laura park Jake next to her desk and then sat down in a chair.

She looked at the chart for a moment. “This is Jacob Kingsley, born March 7, 1960, correct?”

“Correct,” Jake grumbled before Laura could answer.

“What’s going on today, Jake?” Andie asked him.

“I don’t know,” Jake panted. “I don’t feel very good. And I’ve got green shit coming out of my surgery site.”

“Do you know where you are right now, Jake?” she asked next.

“The hospital,” Jake said slowly.

“Do you know which hospital?”

He thought about this for a moment. “Santa Barbara? Cottage?”

“Not quite,” she said softly. “What month is it right now?”

“September?” he asked doubtfully.

“Not quite,” she said again. “Who is the president?”

Jake thought that one over. “The cigar dude,” he finally said. “The one who nailed the intern.”

“Do you remember his name?” she asked.

“Uh ... shit,” Jake said, shaking his head.

“Okay,” Andie said slowly. “Definitely not oriented times four.” She turned to Laura. “Are these things he would normally know that answer to?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” Laura said.

“Has he been drinking? Doing drugs?”

Laura shook her head. “He had a glass of wine with dinner,” she said. “He took two Norcos at about nine o’clock because he was in pain from his surgery. He was fine then. We went to bed around ten. He woke up like this around four-thirty.”

“You don’t think he took more Norcos than he told you?”

“No!” Laura said. “He hates taking those thing. Besides, if he got out of bed, I would’ve woken up.”

“Okay,” Andie said. “Sorry. Have to ask. Tell me the story of what happened tonight.”

Laura told her the story, giving a brief summary of Jake’s gunshot wound (which she undoubtedly already knew about), the surgery he had undergone, and the symptoms he had developed over the past twenty-four hours.

“Let me take a look at the wound,” she said. She had Jake pull his shirt up (he winced in pain as he did so) and she looked at it carefully. “The wound is dehiscing,” she said. “Splitting open along the seam from pressure inside. That’s not good.”

“It didn’t look good to me either,” Laura said. “He’s burning up with fever. Feel his skin.”

Andie touched Jake’s left arm and nodded. “He feels pretty hot all right. Let’s get your temperature, Jake.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “Can I get a blanket?”

“Not just yet,” Andie said. She pulled a thermometer from her vitals machine, slid it into a box of plastic covers and then told Jake to open wide. He did so and she stuck it in his mouth. “Under your tongue. Close your mouth.”

Jake followed her instructions, though his teeth were still chattering. Andie looked at the display and it finally gave her a reading. She whistled a little bit.

“What is it?” asked Laura, who could not see the display.

“A hundred and three point two,” Andie said. “That’s pretty hot.”

“You could light a doobie off of him right now,” Laura said. “Is that why he’s so loopy?”

“That’s likely a part of it,” she replied. “Kids can handle a fever like that without much problem. Adults ... not so much. Have you given him anything for it? Tylenol? Motrin?”

“No,” she said. “When I saw how sick he was, I just brought him here. We were in bed asleep forty-five minutes ago.”

Andie nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Makes sense. Let’s get some vitals.”

She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his left arm and then put a pulse oximeter probe on his right index finger. She activated both machines and then watched the display for a reading. She frowned at what she saw.

“How is it?” Laura asked.

“His pulse is one-thirty,” Andie said. “His blood pressure is eight-two over forty. Oxygen sat is eighty-six on room air.”

“Not good, right?” Laura asked. “I’m a teacher and a sax player not a doctor, but that sounds bad.”

“It’s not good,” Andie agreed. “I think he’s septic.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he’s really sick. I’m going to get him back right away so we can start working on him.” She wrote all of the numbers down on the top piece of paper on Jake’s chart, made a few notes in a narrative section, and then picked up the phone on her desk and dialed a four digit number. She listened for a moment and then said, “It’s Andie. I just triaged Jake Kingsley and he’s pretty sick. Looks septic with a post-op infection. Febrile, tachy, hypoxic, hypotensive, altered mentation. He needs to come back right away.” She listened. “Yeah, the Jake Kingsley. His wife is with him.” Another listen. “Sounds good.” She hung up the phone and stood, grabbing the clipboard. “Come on. Let’s get him in a room.”

Laura pushed the wheelchair, following Andie out of the triage room and into the bowels of the emergency department. They passed through halls where homeless looking men and women were sleeping on gurneys, rooms where other patients were in various stages of treatment. There was a strong smell of feces in the air. Staff members in scrubs moved here and there on various missions. Moans, groans, and cries of both children and adults filled the air. The atmosphere appeared to be barely controlled chaos.

They ended up in one of the big rooms at the front of the department. It held two beds that were separated by a curtain. The bed on the right contained an elderly man on a ventilator with two IVs being infused into him and a male nurse caring for him. The bed on the left was currently empty and neatly made up with a sheet and a draw sheet. Laura followed Andie over to the bed. A woman in blue scrubs and a man in green scrubs with a stethoscope around his neck came into the room just behind them.

“What’s the story, Andie?” the green scrub man asked. He looked very young to Laura, maybe only in his early thirties, but his name badge had the word PHYSICIAN on it.

“This is Jake Kingsley,” Andie told him. “The Jake Kingsley. I’m sure you’ve heard that he was shot in the chest a few weeks back. He was treated at Cottage in Santa Barbara and discharged home four days ago now. He began having increased pain at the surgical site last night. At about 04:30, Mrs. Kingsley here reports that he woke up febrile and weak. It looks like the surgical wound is dehiscing and there is green pus oozing out of it. His temp is one-oh-three-two, pressure in the eighties, sat is in the eighties, tachy at one-thirty, confused. Mrs. Kingsley says two Norcos at around nine o’clock last night, one glass of wine at dinnertime, and that he does not abuse the pain meds.”

The doctor nodded and then turned to Laura. “I’m Dave Ford, one of the ER doctors here,” he introduced. “Are you sure about the Norcos, Mrs. Kingsley?”

“You can call me Laura,” she told him. “And yes, I am absolutely sure. He hates taking those things. He only does it when the pain is really bad.”

“And the pain was really bad last night?” he asked.

“Yes,” Laura said. “It’s been getting worse instead of better. That was the first time he ever took two Norcos instead of one.”

“Has he followed up with his surgeon?”

“We are supposed to do that on Wednesday,” she said. “That’s when they were supposed to take the stitches out.”

“And all of this developed over the past eight hours or so?” he asked. “He wasn’t sick at all last night? Wasn’t weak or confused?”

“No, just having increased pain,” she said. “We were even able to ... uh ... you know, have relations last night before we went to sleep. He was fine then. Well ... mostly fine. He has been getting a little out of breath lately when he exerts himself.”

Dr. Ford nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get him over there and get him undressed.”

Laura sat in a chair next to the bed and watched as Andie and the other nurse got Jake to stand and sit on the edge of the bed. He began to get wobbly and gray out when they did it. They quickly pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor and then laid him down flat. They then pulled off his shoes and socks and then yanked off his sweats, leaving him only in his blue underwear.

“Let me take a look at the wound,” Dr. Ford said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He went over to the bedside and raised Jake’s right arm up, causing Jake to cry out. “Sorry, Jake,” he told him with a soothing voice. “I’m Doctor Ford. I just want to look at what we’re dealing with here.”

“I feel like shit, doc,” Jake grunted.

“You kind of look like shit too,” Ford told him, “but we’re gonna get you feeling better.” He poked and prodded at the wound a bit, frowning at what he saw there. “It’s dehiscing all right. Some of the sutures have been ripped out.” He turned back to Laura. “Is this the first sign of infection that you’ve seen?”