Page 1 of Tropical Heat

One

Morgan

As the sun came up, the dark blues and mottled grays above the Florida Straits gave way to golden yellows mixed with a fiery orange. Somewhere in the distance, a gull screeched. A gentle breeze blew in from the ocean side. The salty air had the slightest hint of hydrogen sulfide, signaling that sargassum season had arrived early this year. Out on the Overseas Highway, a delivery driver shifted gears and headed south through town.

The time and temperature sign in front of Suncoast Bank showed it was already seventy-two degrees. There had been eight inches of snow on the ground in Pittsburgh when Doris Paulson called to offer me the position at Turtle Key Medical Center. But it was not the weather which drew me to the opportunity.

I understand all too well how important quick access to a Level I trauma center is for those who are critically injured. It can literally be the difference between life and death. The next closest facility of its type is in Miami. One hundred and fifteen miles to the north.

I looked at my watch. There was another hour until shift change, and I hoped it would be as uneventful as the previous nine. An empty Frito bag fluttered across the parking lot. I chased it down and stuck the trash in the pocket of my white coat. Despite having only arrived in The Keys a week earlier, I already knew the vital role The Reef plays in the local economy.

After another moment to savor the sun on my face, I turned to reenter the hospital. But before I got to the door, the siren of an approaching ambulance pierced the tranquil morning, signaling someone needed my help. I hurried to the EMS entrance.

By the time I got there, the man I had nicknamed HB, short for Hot Butt, and another paramedic, were already offloading the gurney from the rear of the unit. HB smiled and then gave me the rundown. His lips were plump and looked soft. You know the type of lips I'm talking about. Lips that with one kiss would ruin you for all other lips.

“Patient is Dixie Higgs. a 29-year-old female. When we arrived on scene, at Jasper’s Qwik Mart, we found Ms. Higgs in the backseat of a parked car. She was unconscious and unresponsive. Items in the vehicle and previous calls involving the same individual indicated a likely fentanyl overdose. We administered naloxone in the field. After confirming her vitals were stable, she was loaded into the unit for transport.”

Growing up in rural West Virginia, and a year of residency at Pittsburgh Mercy Hospital, meant I had seen firsthand the damage caused by opioid abuse. It is a crisis created by the greed of a few powerful pharmaceutical companies, and made worse by misguided members of my profession.

The woman strapped to the gurney was my age, but looked twice as old. Dark circles around her sunken eyes and a broken nose, which had never been properly set, marred an otherwise unremarkable face. Dirty bare feet and soiled pink shorts, a size too big for her shrunken frame, suggested she might be unhoused. “Any sign of injury?” I asked the paramedics. “The bloodstain on her shirt looks recent.”

“It's not her blood.” I looked up just in time to see a police officer step out of the ambulance. He held a bloody cloth wrapped around his forearm. “The bitch bit me.”

This roused Ms. Higgs, who pulled at her restraints. “Serves you right, motherfucker. You had no right to kill my high. I’m gonna sue every one of you bitches.”

“Shut up or I’ll put the cuffs back on.” The officer reached towards his utility belt with his good arm and the woman began to cry.

She looked past me towards the cop. “You should have just let me die.”

“Not on my watch, sweetheart.” His smile turned to a snarl. “Too much damn paperwork for that shit.”

Realizing he was not interested in calming the situation, I took the woman's hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “It's going to be okay. We'll take care of you.” I asked the paramedics to put the woman in exam room one. Then turned to the cop and asked him to follow me to exam room five. After pulling the curtain closed, I introduced myself. “I’m Doctor Morgan Lewis. What’s your name, officer?”

“Deputy Sheriff Dante Garcia. You must be new.”

I saw no need to explain to this man it was my first week on the job. “Well, Deputy Sheriff Garcia, we need to get your shirt off so I can look at your wound.”

“Can't you just give me a Band-Aid and call it good? I've radioed for another unit to meet me here, so we can transport my prisoner to lock-up.”

“The patient voiced suicidal thoughts. She won’t be going anywhere until she is examined by Psych.”

“What do you mean, suicidal thoughts?”

“She stated, in front of multiple witnesses, that she wished you had let her die.”

“That's bull crap and you know it. She assaulted a police officer.” He gestured to his arm. “She needs to be locked up.”

“What she needs is help, not punishment. Drug addiction is a disease, Deputy.”

“Just what we need around here, another liberal bleeding heart from up north.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“This is not up for debate. As long as she is in my ER, Ms. Higgs is my patient and my responsibility.” My gaze locked on his deep brown eyes, long enough to make sure he got the message. “Now let's have a look at that arm, shall we?”

He grudgingly removed his uniform shirt. I had been so busy showing him who was in charge; I had missed how well built he was. But bare chested, it was impossible not to see that from his broad pectorals down to insanely developed abdominals; he was ripped.

But he was also a major jerk. So why were my nether regions sending unwanted thoughts to my brain? Before he could see me flush, I turned to the cabinet, which held general supplies. The irrigation kit I needed was in the bottom drawer. When I stood back up and faced him, I noticed an annoying smirk on his face. Had he been checking out my ass? Did I want him to check me out? Absolutely not.

I focused on his wound, reminding myself he was a patient. “I'm going to give you an injection to numb the area before I clean it out.”

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