Frank
ran down the hall and into his brother’s room in time to see two
orderlies step back from the bed that they had just strapped Joe too.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, trying hard to keep his
expression neutral.
Joe
spoke at the same time, not recognizing Frank when he entered.
“I’ll eat breakfast,” he promised, his blue eyes wide with
fright.
“Lunch and dinner too,” he added.
“Please?”
“He refused to eat dinner last night,” Rimes answered Frank with a
scowl.
“So now he has to be fed with tubes.”
Frank swallowed before speaking so he could keep his tone impartial.
“Was he fed this way last night after he refused?”
“Yes,” answered the tall, gangly orderly whose nametag identified him
as Spricket.
“Then don’t you think he might have learned his lesson and is willing
to cooperate now?” Frank asked, resisting the urge to look at his
brother for fear he might give away his cover.
“A possibility,” agreed Dr. Holden from behind Frank.
Frank spun around and saw the doctor standing there but the doctor was
looking speculatively at Joe.
“Will you eat every meal placed before you?” he asked the
blond-headed youth.
Joe nodded vigorously.
“Very well, you will be given one more chance.”
He looked at Rimes.
“Take him to breakfast.”
“Yes, Sir,” Rimes responded.
The other orderly let out a relieved sigh.
He hated seeing the patients suffer.
“Who are you?” Dr. Holden asked, turning to Frank as Joe was being
released.
“Michael Slag,” Frank answered.
Joe threw him an unobtrusive look.
He had recognized the alias as one from a list they had drawn up
months ago.
“I was waiting to see the chief administrator about a job,”
Frank explained his presence.
“But I heard someone screaming and came to see if I could be of
help.”
“Initiative,” stated Holden with a small smile.
“I like that.
Come with me and I will escort you to his office.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Frank replied, following the doctor through the
door without a second glance at Joe or the two orderlies.
“I hope they hire him,” Spricket said as they waited for Joe to get
to his feet.
“Agreed,” said Rimes, nodding.
“It’s weird but about a fourth of the patients here need
watching twenty-four seven and another fourth, like this one, have to be
locked up unless someone is with them.”
“I don’t have to be locked up,” protested Joe.
“I thought that was some rule for all of the patients.”
“Just the ones who haven’t gotten past the stage of making themselves
sick,” Spricket informed him.
“Half the kids here have free run of the place.”
“How will you know I won’t make myself sick anymore if I am never
given the chance?” reasoned Joe.
“It’s up to Dr. Turner and the other doctors to make that
decision,” answered Rimes.
“Now, come along,” he instructed.
“You have another session with Dr. Turner after breakfast.”
“I’ll head back to the east wing then,” Spricket said.
“Liz is a real pain to watch and it took me forever to convince
Nurse Blaine that I had to help you this morning so she would have to
watch Liz for awhile.”
“Thanks,” Rimes said gratefully.
“I’ll see you after work.
We’re still on for bowling, right?”
“You bet’cha,” agreed Spricket before leaving.
*****
“Well, Mr. Slag, your resume is very impressive,” said Stan Lyman,
the chief administrator of the Wesley Lane Smith Foundation.
“When would you be able to start?”
“Immediately,” answered Frank.
“How about this evening?” Lyman asked, his green eyes twinkling.
“We are a bit short-staffed at the present, you see.
Our goal is to maintain one orderly for every two
patients per twelve-hour shift. However, some of out patients no
longer require around the clock supervision and we maintain a skeleton
staff after eight p.m.”
“You want me here at eight?” asked Frank.
“No.
The shift begins at seven but most of the nurses and all but one
doctor leave at eight,” Lyman explained.
“Of course, if you would care to stay for a little while this
morning, I will show you around.”
“Thank you, Sir,” agreed Frank with a slight nod.
He followed Lyman out of his office and down the hall.
At the first door, Lyman stopped and informed Frank that all
information on the patient was kept on a chart within the locked file
holder by the outside of the door.
“You will be given a master key for the files when you begin work this
evening,” Lyman told Frank.
“Before entering the room you are to remove the file and
familiarize yourself with the patient.
You need to know their likes and dislikes; allergies; even what
they ate when you were not with them.
“If, by some miracle, a snack is requested by a patient, you will treat
it like a meal.
Weight and blood pressure is to be taken and recorded along with
the time.
You will list what the snack was; how much was given; how much was
eaten; and, again, the weight and blood pressure after the
consumption.”
“Why so much detail?” asked Frank curiously.
“This is a research facility,” Lyman answered.
“We are working on a cure.”
Lyman continued showing Frank around the building.
They were almost finished when Frank saw Joe, fully dressed in a
pair of faded jeans and a white tee shirt, being escorted to a room not
far from where he and Lyman stood. “That isn’t his room,” observed
Frank with a frown.
Lyman looked at Frank suspiciously so Frank told him how he had
met Dr. Holden earlier.
“Ah, I see,” Lyman said, his friendly smile back in place.
“That is Jack Turner’s office,” he informed Frank.
“Dr. Turner is our resident psychiatrist.
New patients, like Joe, see him daily while others only see him
twice a week.
It is up to Dr. Turner to judge the mental stability of the
patients.
His prognosis, along with that of Dr. Holden or Dr. Kutchem is
what determines the amount of supervision needed for each patient.”
As Frank left the foundation, he wondered what Joe had been talking about
with Dr. Turner that kept him on the high-risk supervision list that he
had seen posted in the main hall when he had first arrived.
