Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett

thoughts.
    Or more specifically: “I’m an assistant nurse ethicist at one of the best hospitals in Thailand and you’re asking me if I can read?”
    So Ladarat interjected, before they could get off on the wrong foot. She was the one in charge, after all, and she shot Sisithorn a reproving glance.
    “We’re not doctors,” she said. “So we may not be able to explain what everything means. But we could translate, if that would help?”
    Mr. Fuller nodded. “They’re giving us an official summary translation later today, but I thought… well… I thought that there might be more detail here.”
    So Sisithorn and Ladarat joined the three in the little “V” that the Americans had created. Mr. and Mrs. Fuller sat on one side, and Sisithorn and Ladarat on the other, with Kate in her wheelchair in the opening between them, closing the triangle. Sisithorn and Ladarat took the pile of papers between them and shuffled the pages into some semblance of chronological order. As they did, Mr. Fuller took out a yellow legal pad, and turned to a fresh page.
    Oh dear. What if she said something that Khun Suphit, the director, would object to? What if she made a mistake?
    “We can translate,” Ladarat offered, “but we can’t tell you what some of these things mean. Their… significance.”
    Mr. Fuller nodded. “Anything would be helpful, I guess.”
    She and Sisithorn put the stack of papers between them and took turns pulling sheets from the file. First one, then the other, they walked the Americans through what had happened to Andrew in the past three days.
    “This,” Ladarat said carefully, “is the admission note from Sunday.” The three Americans were watching her intently, and Mr. Fuller’s hand began to write. She hoped she didn’t say anything that was wrong. She hoped even more that Sisithorn would be careful.
    “This describes some of his injuries. His pelvis was broken in three places, it says. And his right femur. The CT scan says he has a hematoma—a collection of blood—in the capsule around his liver. That sometimes happens with trauma.” She scanned the rest of the report.
    “There are other small things,” she concluded, “but those seem to be the main problems.”
    “But what about his brain?” Mr. Fuller asked.
    Ladarat looked to Sisithorn, who was holding the neurologist’s report. She looked at Ladarat nervously and Ladarat nodded. She could trust Sisithorn not to say anything that was insensitive.
    “This is the neurologist’s report from yesterday,” Sisithorn said. “The neurologist is Dr. Ratana. It talks about the CT scan that they did, and his own exam. It is a summary, you understand?” The three Americans nodded.
    “Dr. Ratana describes… what happened to Mr. Fuller, from the reports available.” She looked up cautiously at the ladies and especially at the elder Mr. Fuller. She seemed to decide that a review of those details would be too painful.
    “He describes those events,” she repeated lamely. “And then he describes Mr. Fuller’s neurological status when he arrived here.”
    “Keep in mind,” Ladarat interjected, “that these findings are a day old. They don’t include… changes”—she almost said “improvements”—“that might have happened since then.”
    The Americans nodded. No doubt they’d heard some version of that before. That was yesterday, but tomorrow is another day, as they are fond of saying in the United States.
    Of course, tomorrow is not really another day. Usually tomorrow is just another version of yesterday, with slightly different weather and new lottery numbers. But if you’re an American, she knew, then sunrise was a promise that anything could happen.
    Sisithorn looked at her, then at the Americans. Then she began to read again, picking through the information as one might pick through som tam —green papaya salad—looking for the crunchiest bits of fruit while avoiding the fiery chilies.
    She described the CT scan results: