gagging noises. "What does she see in him?"
"He's hung like a Percheron?" Roxanne asked.
Mary held up a thumb and wiggled it. "Nope. I had him when he was getting his heart catheterization. Whatever his wife loves him for, it is not for his great whopping sausage."
Dayne winced. There were some things she didn't feel bore discussion, not even in the privacy of the nurses' lounge. That was one of them. She got up to leave.
"Have you ever seen anyone that gorgeous before?" Roxanne mused.
Mary said, "Oh, hell, Rox—she bought that face. The tits, too—I'd bet anything. Real people just don't look like that. And to be a doctor . . ." Mary laughed. "Come on . . . she's at least thirty. And she looks—what? Nineteen? Twenty?"
Dayne went out to gather her morning linen. She still had Walter "Call Me Walt" Harvey in 432-E. D was empty, though. Wilthom Fields, relieved of his gremlins, had gotten a good night's sleep and, cheerful and sane as anyone could hope to be, had transferred out to the floor for a single additional day of observation. Dr. Batskold had transferred him the night before, just before putting himself on an extended leave of absence and dumping his practice in the hands of Dr. Ken Weary, who, unlike Batskold, had a passing acquaintance with human beings and how to act like one.
Dayne found herself, with a touch of uncharitability, hoping Bastard didn't make it back before she left for her new job. There were some people on the planet she'd be happier never having to see again, and he was certainly high on the list.
According to Frank, there was something big going on in the ER—and if it came to the ICU, it was going to land on Dayne, since she had the only open bed. She hurried into E, hoping to get her a.m. care done before anything big came her