Clark Durand's House

42 Adams Street

Staggering up the driveway to her brother's house, Beth Durand clutches her crushed velvet coat more tightly, her eyes squeezed shut against the snow and icy air. Only a few feet more, she chants with every step. Then I'll be safe.

For a few moments following that stranger's attempted assault, she'd been petrified with fear. Then, forcing herself into action, she managed to find a path around the Concert Hall building to the front entrance, where she'd retrieved her coat. Without it, she probably would be frostbitten by now, after walking all the way across town.

As it is, her feet and hands are nearly numb. When she climbs up to the porch and reaches the front door, it takes several attempts before her thick, clumsy fingers can retrieve the keyring from her purse, then insert the correct key into the lock. At last the key finds its home, a success that makes her sob.

But the door swings open without her having to turn the knob. She gasps in surprise at seeing the tall, rushing figure of her brother, almost knocking into her as he starts to leave the house.

"Oh God!" Clark Durand grabs her shoulders, pulling her towards him. "Bethy, thank God you're here."

"C-Clark," she whispers through chattering teeth. Grateful for the warmth of his embrace, she closes her eyes. His concern for her is such a blessed relief ... for once, he seems to understand her completely. "Oh Clark, how did you know?"

"The hospital called me. Come on, we can go together. They've moved her to Recovery, did you hear that?"

Beth feels herself jerked out the door again, away from the warmth of the house that was so tantalizingly close. As Clark pulls her back down the steps of the porch, she winces with pain. "I don't understand," she asks, feeling stupid and slow -- as if her brain itself is frozen. "The hospital called...?"

"A friend of mine in the E.R. recognized her name. Then Rena called. She's going straight there." He shoves out his car keys and unlocks the doors with a flick of his wrist. "Come on, get in."

Beth stands there, uncomprehending. "What? I'm not going anywhere, I -- I need to get some sleep."

Her brother glares up at her, his face pale in the light from the street lamp. "Damn it, I'm not arguing with you, and you're not going to pull your selfish act on me now. She needs us!"

"Stop it, stop yelling at me!" Beth almost wails her distress. "I don't know who you're talking about!"

Clark's mouth parts as he finally seems to see Beth's confusion. "Jesus, Bethy, I thought you knew. It's Mama. There was a fire at the newspaper, and she was trapped in an elevator."

Beth now understands the sirens she vaguely heard as she walked down Adams Street. Her body shudders convulsively. "Is she all right?"

"I'm not sure." He shakes his head, his usually strong voice weak and hoarse. "She's been moved from the ER to Recovery, which is something, anyway. Jane ... that's the E.R. nurse who called, she said she'll need surgery because of some compound fractures, but they want her stabilized first. Look, I'll tell you about it on the way -- now will you please get in the car?"

As much as she'd love to ignore his request, Beth can't ignore the need in her brother's stare. Somehow she forces herself around to the passenger's side, getting in next to Clark as he starts the engine.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Fifth Floor Surgery Waiting Room

Greg White jogs ahead of the others accompanying him, anxious to talk to his colleagues in charge of his brother's case. Glancing behind her, Rena Carlson makes sure that Greg's niece and her friend are being taken care of appropriately by the desk nurse, and then moves faster to join Greg.

Lingering behind, Chelsea Stanford frowns at Greg's back, wishing she weren't at a loss in these surroundings. She shoves her hands in her coat pockets and sits down on one of the padded vinyl chairs a few spaces away from the others.

The waiting room is nearly empty at this time of night, populated only by family members of the few patients undergoing emergency surgeries. A few small tables are interspersed among the chairs, along with some plants and magazine racks. Currently only one hospital clerk is on duty behind the front desk.

A few moments later, Greg and Rena return -- the latter rubbing Greg's elbow gently, much to Chelsea's annoyance.

She clears her throat and stands up again. Daphne White moves forward as well, speaking before Chelsea gets a chance to. "How is he?"

Greg's face is pale, a sharp contrast to his dark waving hair still damp from the snow. "He's still in surgery. Daphne -- " He reaches out a hand awkwardly, touching her shoulder. "Let's sit down."

He leads her back to the long row of dark green chairs by the front desk, where they both take their seats simultaneously. Daphne stares at him through narrowed, wary eyes.

"It's bad," she says flatly. "I can tell."

"It's serious, not bad."

"That's doctor speak, it means the same thing. I'm not stupid, Greg. Tell me the truth."

"I am." Greg sighs. "Your dad had several major internal injuries, mostly to his chest and abdomen. He's lost a great deal of blood thanks to some broken ribs and a ruptured spleen. They're doing a splenectomy now, in fact, because it's just bleeding too much to be recovered."

Daphne swallows hard. "Do they need an organ donor or something?"

"No, you can live without a spleen. They'd rather not have to remove it, but it's the best way to stop the bleeding."

"Okay. And -- and what else is wrong?"

"Well, he's got something called a hemothorax. That's when one of the blood vessels in your chest cavity is broken, usually because it's been pierced by a rib. The chest and lungs get flooded with blood--" He hesitates, suddenly tired and at a loss.

Rena takes a quick step closer to Greg, standing by his shoulder. "Basically, your father's had a lot of difficulty getting oxygen through his lungs. But they've put him on a respirator, a tube down through his throat, and now he's getting the air he needs."

Daphne stares from Greg up to Rena. "What did they do about the bleeding in his lungs?"

"They caught it in time and they were able to drain them. Once they take care of the splenectomy, they'll deal with stopping the leaking blood vessels."

Rena's voice is low and soothing, but Daphne returns her gaze to Greg's hollow stare. "You're not telling me something," she says accusingly, and then yanks his coat sleeve. "What aren't you telling me?"

He looks at her for a moment, then suddenly stands up. "I'm sorry," he mutters under his breath. "I can't do this..."

Daphne glares after him as he strides away, but Rena sits down beside her and continues as if Greg hasn't done anything unusual.

"Your father and Ms. Wagner were stuck in the building for a long time during the fire. Dr. White was having these breathing problems I just told you about, but on top of that, there was a lot of smoke. And so there was a while when he wasn't getting much oxygen at all. I don't know how much you know about the effects of oxygen deprivation, but ... but there's a chance that there's been some brain damage."

"Brain damage?" Daphne looks blankly at her. "You mean he'll be in a coma?"

"That's a narrow possibility. But there are others too, anything from memory loss to...more significant problems." Rena pushes her hair away from her face nervously. "But all this is speculation, Daphne. The important thing right now is that he gets through surgery and recovery safely."

After a few seconds, Daphne clears her throat. "Can I -- can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Okay. No one around me ever told me the truth about things. My mom and -- " Daphne wipes her burning eyes. "They both always lied about every damn thing. Even Greg doesn't like telling the truth. But you seem different. Will you promise to be honest?"

"Yes, I will."

"Do you think he'll get through surgery okay?"

"I'm not sure. But from what I heard when we talked to one of the O.R. nurses, so far things are going well."

"You'd tell me if it wasn't, wouldn't you?"

"I would."

Daphne nods, turning away from Rena to look at the floor. "Thank you," she whispers almost to herself.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Fifth Floor Surgery Waiting Room

Down the hall, Greg stares out the floor-to-ceiling window looking out onto the parking lot. In the reflection of the waiting room behind him, he can see Rena talking quietly with Daphne. And then he sees Chelsea approaching from behind.

She slips beside him, meeting his gaze in the reflection. "You want some coffee or something?"

"No. Thanks. And thanks for taking us here, and for staying."

"No problem." She smiles gently, not her usual thousand-watts, but somehow showing more warmth. "Wish there was something else I can do."

"So do I. I'm not used to standing around this way. I should be in the O.R., for God's sake."

"You're a brain surgeon. He doesn't need brain surgery, does he?"

"No. Even if -- no," he adds with a terse shake of his head.

"But why can't you be in there anyway? Just like, watching?"

"Hospital policy. Family members aren't allowed in surgery."

"That's dumb. Even if you work here?"

Greg smiles bleakly. "Especially if you work here."

Chelsea shrugs and stands closer to him. "Well, I -- I heard what you were telling your niece. Sounds like they have everything in control. Even without you."

"Control. Yeah, sure." Greg runs an angry hand through his hair and turns to her. "You want to hear about control? I've been pissed off with Doug for years now because he's been out of control. And I'm not the only one -- he's been a town pariah, practically, because of his dumb-ass mistakes and addiction, right?"

"Uh ... right, I guess."

"Even though he's been going to a twelve-step group, I haven't really taken him very seriously. I mean, he's screwed up a few times before, I figured he'd do it again."

"But that's what usually happens. They say most people don't recover."

"Yeah, I know. Well, listen to this. They wheeled my brother in, practically unconscious, and in Christ-only-knows how much pain because he's got ribs sticking into his lungs and abdomen, bleeding internally so that he's practically drowning himself. You know how much pain he must've been in?"

"Greg--"

"And you know what Doug said to them?" Greg interrupts himself with a harsh laugh. "They didn't pay attention to him because they figured he wasn't coherent, he couldn't be considering everything that was going on. And especially considering what he was saying..."

When he pauses, obviously in distress, Chelsea lifts a hand to touch his arm. "What was he saying, Greg?"

Greg meets her gaze with glassy eyes. "'No drugs.' That's what he kept telling them, 'no drugs. I can't have drugs.' He was thinking about staying clean, can you believe it? My weak-willed brother knew he'll be at major risk of relapse if he got on painkillers again, and avoiding that was more important to him than relieving his suffering."

Chelsea digests this information, her face unusually solemn. "Wow."

"Yeah. Wow." Greg looks back out at the falling snow. "But it's impossible. There's no way he'd survive the pain of what he's going through without medication. No goddamned way. So you know what I just did?"

"What?"

"I told them to ignore his wishes and dope him up anyway. I told them he didn't have the capacity to make that decision, and because I'm a doctor and a colleague, they took my word for it and let me sign the consent form. Even though I knew he meant what he was saying."

They stand in silence for a while, and then Chelsea tilts her head up at him. "You're doing it 'cause he's your brother. You're just trying to save the guy's life. Why are you acting like you did a bad thing?"

Greg shakes his head slightly. "Because I know what hell he's been through for the past few years when he was using. I know better than anyone," he mutters in contempt. "And I'm pretty sure he'd tell me that if he's going back to being the pathetic wretch he's been, he'd rather I let him die."

Jem Van Doren's Residence

Seven River Drive

The apartment is bathed in darkness, except for the blue-white light emanating from the television set in the living room. Lying on his sofabed, Jem Van Doren looks at the blandly pretty face of the Channel 10 news anchor. The words she's reading hardly seem real -- and not just because her talent at portraying the serious side of the news is minimal at best.

"...alarm fire has been blazing for nearly five hours now, and according to Fire Chief Stan Kirkpatrick, the wind isn't helping matters any."

Jem shakes his head, covering his eyes with a trembling hand. His head has been throbbing ever since the phone rang earlier this evening, when a cop called to tell him that the Record was on fire.

He didn't even pick up the phone, instead listening to the message over and over again on his machine. No real point in talking to the cops now. Nothing he could say or do would make this outcome any different. And he's stuck here anyway, practically an invalid due to his broken leg and other still-healing injuries.

No, no matter if he talks to the cop, scurries down to toast some marshmallows over the embers of his former newspaper, or stays here and drinks himself into a stupor: the die is already cast.

Now that's an appropriate metaphor, he thinks with a sick grin, although actually craps has never been his favorite form of gambling. His games are poker, football and of course that elegant standby, the racetrack. In fact, it was playing the ponies that's gotten him into this current mess -- unless you count throwing a wad of money away chasing a newspaper's success as gambling.

"Hey, why the hell shouldn't I count it," Jem says to the news anchor, lifting his third glass of whisky in a salute. "It's not like it ruined my nonstop losing streak. Hail and farewell, Record you ol' bitch goddess. We hardly knew ye."

Downing the whisky in a single swift gulp, Jem swings his arm down and grabs the remote control. "Hey, Peggy," he mutters to the blonde on his TV screen. "You're boring me. Same story over and over again, it's getting monotonous. One thing I never did at the paper, that's repeat myself."

He points the remote at the TV like a weapon, hoping to zap her face into oblivion. Just as he's about to press the OFF button, a new graphic appears on the blue screen behind the anchorwoman's head. "This Just In," Jem murmurs, interested again. "Okay, what have you got for me now?"

"We've just heard an unconfirmed report from radio station WCOL: two victims have been removed from the fire scene and taken to the emergency room at Community Hospital, both in critical condition. According to our sources, the police have not yet officially released the names of the victims, but WCOL is identifying one of them as the Record's associate editor, Elaine Wagner."

Jem's trembling fingers drop his empty glass. "This isn't happening," he whispers, horrified to the point of near stupor. "This isn't goddamned happening!"

The ringing phone shatters the silence of the living room. Jem darts his hand out and reaches for the cell phone. "Yeah?"

"Hello, Jem." Elaine Wagner's mezzo voice sounds weary, but she's laughing a little -- at his expense, no doubt. "Still need to brush up on those telephone skills, I see."

"Took you long enough to get back to me. I suppose you don't think you need me anymore, Miss Pseudo-Editor-in-Chief?"

"Don't start with me."

"What are you even doing at the office this late? I figured without me you'd be out partying the minute it hit six o'clock."

"Are you really trying to make me feel guilty? Me? You know I've been pulling crazy hours thanks to your absence."

"Yeah, sure ... except for tonight."

"I told you that a few days ago. I hope it's still okay with you," she adds sarcastically. "I need a rest. Besides, everyone else went home, there's no reason I need to slave away here."

"Everyone else--?"

"Yes, Jem, you know the paper's a tomb on Thursday nights. "

He swallows, suddenly thinking about his own tomb again. "I'd have put that another way. But yeah, I know that."

"What do you want, then?"

"Um ..." Hesitating, Jem looks at the floor. "I wanna talk to you about the paper's future. There are gonna be some changes--"

"What kind?"

"No, I don't need to go into it right now. We'll meet tomorrow." Jem glances at his watch. "Noon okay for you?"

"Yes, but you're making me a little nervous. What--"

"Nothing to be nervous about. It's all good." He laughs hollowly. "Now go home already. Have a good night, have some dinner, have fun, whatever you usually do."

"Are you okay? Doesn't sound like you."

"You complaining? Just say goodnight, Lainie."

Jem shakes his head, over and over again, and finally lowers it into his cold, sweating hands. "Why didn't she go home? Jesus Christ, Lainie, why didn't you go home?"