It was the second time she’d been yelled at this morning and it still wasn’t noon. If she didn’t get to the packets soon, she’d ... she’d what?

A few minutes later, the ER called for ten units of plasma. Some kid had been shot and was bleeding like a stuck pig. Suddenly the room was a frenzy of working technicians, Ghent in the middle of everything.

She grabbed a lab cart, put the lunchbox on the lower shelf, and walked quickly to the rear of the lab. Her stomach cramped as she moved into the freezer repository area, then dry heaves wracked her.

What if someone was watching her? She refused to look back into the lab.

She snatched up a pair of insulated gloves and a pair of tongs, grabbed Carl Chapman’s supply of marrow from the freezer, and tossed the packets into the lunchbox.

Cold sweat layered her skin. She clutched the cart handle, unable to move, unable to breathe. Trembling, she finally forced one foot in front of the other, made it back through the lab.

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