Porter quickly followed.
"Mikey," Reece asked while kneeling beside him, "what is it?"
Michael did not answer. He collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.
It felt like something was raking at his insides with sharpened claws.
"Call an ambulance!" Reece shouted.
"Now!"
Dr. Carol Simpson escorted Sara to the waiting area in the Atchley Pavilion. Located next to Columbia Presbyterian's main building, the Atchley Pavilion housed the private offices of the medical center's many physicians. When Harvey had taken Michael and Sara on a tour of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center last year, Sara remembered being awe-struck by the size of the center, to say nothing of its reputation.
There was Babies Hospital, the well-known pediatric hospital, and the Harkness Pavilion, where the private patients stayed. The Neurological Institute and the Psychiatric Institute, both housed in their own buildings, were considered the best in their field anywhere in the world, not to mention the Harkness Eye Institute, New York Orthopedic Hospital, Sloane Hospital, Squier Urological Clinic, Vanderbilt Clinic, and the massive, newly completed Milstein Hospital Building.
And all of this medical brilliance had been jammed west of Broadway between 165th and 168th Street in Spanish Harlem.
A block or two farther west and north was student housing for Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons, again one of the most reputable and selective medical schools in the country.
But another five blocks farther north was J. Hood Wright Park, a respectable name for one of the original crack alleys, where passers-by can witness or partake in drug trafficking. Its proximity to the hospital, Harvey had half-joked, made it a convenient place to overdose.
One of the newest and smallest sections of the medical center, almost hidden from view, was near 164th Street. From the outside one would never guess that the broken-down edifice was dedicated to healing and experimental medicine. Named Sidney Pavilion after Harvey Riker's brother, this area of epidemiological study was cloaked in secrecy and security. No one could enter without the permission of Dr. Harvey Riker or Dr. Eric Blake. Staff and patients were kept to a minimum, and all had been specially selected by Riker and the late Dr. Bruce Grey personally. The medical center's board members rarely, if ever, discussed the new section in public.
Dr. Simpson showed Sara to a chair and then went to a window where she handed a test tube filled with Sara's blood to a nurse.
"Take this to the lab. Have them run a beta HCG stat."
"Yes, Doctor." "A beta HCG?" Sara asked.
" "Fancy talk for a pregnancy test," Carol Simpson explained.
"Doctors like to use code words no one else understands. Makes us sound more intelligent, don't you think?"
Sara liked Carol Simpson. Unlike so many others in her profession, there was nothing stuffy or intimidating about her.
Her relaxed attitude put Sara at ease.
"If you say so," Sara replied.
"Well, we have to do something to justify all the years of schooling and internship and residency besides having the M.D.
license plate so we can park illegally in front of Macy's."
"You do that?"
"Only during a sale."
At least forty other patients sat biding their time in the waiting room, sneaking glances from their magazines and wishing their doctor would call their name.
"Give me a ring this afternoon," Carol said.
"The results should be in by then." "Great," Sara said.
"And try not to worry. I know you're anxious, but try not to think about it too much. Do what I do when I need to distract yself: shop till you drop.
Urn; "Well, hello there, ladies."
Sara and Carol turned and saw Harvey coming toward them.
His entire person emanated exhaustion, Sara thought. His head tilted slightly to the side as though he were dozing; his back had curved into a slump.
"Hello, Harvey," Dr. Simpson said.
"Hello, Carol. How's my favorite patient doing, Doc?"
"Very nicely. We should know the
"Mikey," Reece asked while kneeling beside him, "what is it?"
Michael did not answer. He collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.
It felt like something was raking at his insides with sharpened claws.
"Call an ambulance!" Reece shouted.
"Now!"
Dr. Carol Simpson escorted Sara to the waiting area in the Atchley Pavilion. Located next to Columbia Presbyterian's main building, the Atchley Pavilion housed the private offices of the medical center's many physicians. When Harvey had taken Michael and Sara on a tour of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center last year, Sara remembered being awe-struck by the size of the center, to say nothing of its reputation.
There was Babies Hospital, the well-known pediatric hospital, and the Harkness Pavilion, where the private patients stayed. The Neurological Institute and the Psychiatric Institute, both housed in their own buildings, were considered the best in their field anywhere in the world, not to mention the Harkness Eye Institute, New York Orthopedic Hospital, Sloane Hospital, Squier Urological Clinic, Vanderbilt Clinic, and the massive, newly completed Milstein Hospital Building.
And all of this medical brilliance had been jammed west of Broadway between 165th and 168th Street in Spanish Harlem.
A block or two farther west and north was student housing for Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons, again one of the most reputable and selective medical schools in the country.
But another five blocks farther north was J. Hood Wright Park, a respectable name for one of the original crack alleys, where passers-by can witness or partake in drug trafficking. Its proximity to the hospital, Harvey had half-joked, made it a convenient place to overdose.
One of the newest and smallest sections of the medical center, almost hidden from view, was near 164th Street. From the outside one would never guess that the broken-down edifice was dedicated to healing and experimental medicine. Named Sidney Pavilion after Harvey Riker's brother, this area of epidemiological study was cloaked in secrecy and security. No one could enter without the permission of Dr. Harvey Riker or Dr. Eric Blake. Staff and patients were kept to a minimum, and all had been specially selected by Riker and the late Dr. Bruce Grey personally. The medical center's board members rarely, if ever, discussed the new section in public.
Dr. Simpson showed Sara to a chair and then went to a window where she handed a test tube filled with Sara's blood to a nurse.
"Take this to the lab. Have them run a beta HCG stat."
"Yes, Doctor." "A beta HCG?" Sara asked.
" "Fancy talk for a pregnancy test," Carol Simpson explained.
"Doctors like to use code words no one else understands. Makes us sound more intelligent, don't you think?"
Sara liked Carol Simpson. Unlike so many others in her profession, there was nothing stuffy or intimidating about her.
Her relaxed attitude put Sara at ease.
"If you say so," Sara replied.
"Well, we have to do something to justify all the years of schooling and internship and residency besides having the M.D.
license plate so we can park illegally in front of Macy's."
"You do that?"
"Only during a sale."
At least forty other patients sat biding their time in the waiting room, sneaking glances from their magazines and wishing their doctor would call their name.
"Give me a ring this afternoon," Carol said.
"The results should be in by then." "Great," Sara said.
"And try not to worry. I know you're anxious, but try not to think about it too much. Do what I do when I need to distract yself: shop till you drop.
Urn; "Well, hello there, ladies."
Sara and Carol turned and saw Harvey coming toward them.
His entire person emanated exhaustion, Sara thought. His head tilted slightly to the side as though he were dozing; his back had curved into a slump.
"Hello, Harvey," Dr. Simpson said.
"Hello, Carol. How's my favorite patient doing, Doc?"
"Very nicely. We should know the
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