At first, James thought fishing nets were in the trunk, but as he got closer, he realized it was a blanket. And it was moving. A chill ran down his spine. Glancing back, he saw the pair on the shore engrossed in their task, not looking his way. James boldly lifted the blanket—and froze. Beneath it lay a young woman, barely conscious, mumbling incoherently. She seemed in shock.
Without hesitation, he gently scooped the fragile stranger into his arms and hurried toward nearby bushes. There was no time to waste—if the foreigners noticed her gone, they’d come looking. “Shh, shh! Hang in there,” he whispered, pushing through to the undergrowth. But just as he reached the edge, an angry shout rang out behind him, this time in perfect English: “Hey, where you going? I’m talking to you!”
James only quickened his pace. He realized something sinister was afoot on the riverbank. Luckily, the woman was light, and fear gave him strength. Were the pursuers armed? He didn’t know, but he now understood what “stones” they’d meant—clearly, the criminals planned to drown their victim.
Pushing through the bushes, James glanced back, keeping close to tree trunks to stay hidden. He could hear branches snapping under the pursuers’ feet. The highway, where he could flag down a ride, was three hundred yards away—across open ground. The voices grew closer. His heart pounded, his mouth went dry, and sweat poured down his face.
He forgot his own troubles, focused only on saving the woman. Just a little farther, and they’d catch him. He’d have to fight or… Suddenly, a car veered off the highway and stopped on the shoulder. Loud music blared from it. Moments later, a group of young people appeared on the road, clearly looking for a campsite. “They’ll set up by the river,” James thought. It spooked the pursuers—they retreated to their SUV.
James regretted not noting the SUV’s license plate, but at the time, he had no spare second—he was saving the woman. Realizing the pursuers had backed off, he trudged with his last strength toward the car with the loud music. Seeing a tall man in glasses carrying an unconscious woman, the young people grew nervous. “Hey, man, what’s going on? Need help?”
James caught his breath. “Yeah, guys, I really do. Can you give us a lift to my place? It’s not far. I’ll pay, I swear.” “No worries, man, hop in. We’ll clear out our gear. We’re here for a fishing trip with an overnight,” the driver replied briskly.
James exhaled in relief. Ten minutes later, they were cruising down the highway toward his house. He didn’t want to take the stranger to a hospital—as a doctor, he could see she had no serious injuries. She was likely drunk or sedated. At home, he planned to set up an IV to flush her system. He had experience: his late mother, Margaret Anne, had been ill for years, living with him as his patient. Two years ago, she passed, leaving him alone.
Fortunately, his wife, Emily, was no longer home—she’d left for her new lover, a businessman. James didn’t envy him. Commerce and entrepreneurship were alien to him—his passions remained medicine and foreign languages. Sometimes he combined them, translating medical texts, including from Latin, essential in his field. His work wasn’t groundbreaking, but it honed his skills.
Struggling to open the door, James carried the woman inside and laid her on the couch. Turning on the light, he washed his hands and began preparing an IV. By then, the stranger was stirring but still unaware of her surroundings or what had happened. “Easy, easy. Just lie there. I’ll take care of everything, you’ll feel better,” he said, expertly setting the IV.
Besides a blood-cleansing solution, he added a sedative to help her sleep—it wouldn’t hurt in her state. There was no smell of alcohol, so James figured it was likely poisoning. Sitting in an armchair, he watched the solution drip slowly through the tube into her vein. Without realizing it, he slipped into anxious memories of the day.
The morning had started as usual, with no major shocks. Patients came for appointments, and James examined them, gave advice, and wrote prescriptions. Some were regulars, especially in spring and fall when weather affected their health. Today, Barbara Peterson, his high school language teacher who sparked his love for translations, showed up. “Morning, Jimmy. Sorry, this cough’s killing me again—springtime, my system’s weak,” she said from the doorway. “I only asked for you at the desk. No other doctor for me.”
James smiled. “You shouldn’t say that, Barbara. If I’m not here, see anyone—don’t delay. We’ve got good specialists. A doctor’s job is the patient’s health; the rest doesn’t matter much.” She fumbled and pulled out a worn book in a foreign language. “You still remember?” he asked, genuinely delighted. Barbara’s eyes glistened with tears.
“Take it, I don’t need it anymore. Kids and grandkids don’t care about translators—fancy gadgets do it as well as people. My profession’s becoming useless,” she sighed. James waved it off: “Come on! No machine can replace a person, especially a teacher like you. Your lessons still warm my heart.”
They chatted a bit more, and James began the exam. Barbara’s condition wasn’t serious but needed attention—neglect it today, and complications would follow. Over time, she’d become almost a mother to him. They lived far apart, but their meetings were always warm, filled with talk of the past and his early translation efforts. “You were my best student, Jimmy. Such talent—you translated complex texts on the fly,” she admitted, brushing away a tear.
James wrote a prescription, nodding in thanks. As always, the meds were affordable—he knew budget alternatives and didn’t burden patients with high costs. “Thanks, Jimmy, you’re a lifesaver. I felt so bad the other day, I almost called an ambulance, but I held out till morning,” she said, promising to drop by with more books.
The day went on, but the nurse kept disappearing, forcing James to chase down lab results and do her work. Richard Paulson didn’t send a replacement—clearly retaliating, showing who was boss. “Play along, and I’ll promote you; resist, and you’ll rot in this backwater,” his actions seemed to say. But that approach was unacceptable to James.
By noon, the patient flow dwindled. James peeked into the empty hallway: “Looks like that’s it for today.” Before he could sit down with patient charts, Richard Paulson barged into his office without knocking, flanked by two cops. James’s heart sank. “Something wrong, Dr. Carter? Show us what’s in your desk. Yes, that book on the shelf,” Richard smirked.