Get me a doctor.”
He paused for emphasis. “Preferably one who knows the difference between a femur and a fibula.”
The lobby was bustling. It was Friday afternoon, the “witching hour” for military hospitals.
Training accidents, weekend warriors, and old veterans converged in a chaotic symphony of pain. “I’ll… I’ll see who is available, sir. Please, take a seat.”
Sterling didn’t sit.
He paced. Every step sent a jolt of electricity up his spine, but he refused to show it. Pain was just weakness leaving the body, or so the saying went.
But this pain felt less like weakness leaving and more like a hot poker twisting in his marrow. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
Sterling’s patience, never his strong suit, was fraying like an old rope. Finally, a side door opened. Out stepped a woman.
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