Lethal Remedy

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No one knew the man's name. White male, probably in his late seventies, found unresponsive in an alley about two o'clock in the morning and brought to the emergency room. Just another homeless derelict, another John Doe. "Pneumonia, late stages," the intern said.

He yawned. "Happens all the time. Drank himself into a stupor, vomited, aspirated. Probably been lying in that alley for more than a day. Doesn't look like he'll make it." "Labs cooking? Got a sputum culture going?" "Yeah, but it'll take a day or two to get the results of the culture. The smear looks like Staph. Guess I'll give him-"

"Wait. I've got access to an experimental drug that might help. Let me start him on that." The intern shrugged. It was two in the morning.

He'd been on duty for more than twenty-four hours straight-why'd Johnson's wife have to go into labor today?-and he was bushed. The bum probably didn't have a snowball's chance of surviving anyway. Why not?

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