Detroit Heroic
Matt's muscles contracted in concert with the grinding telephone bell. Its pitch ushered in memories of “round one” and the beginning of a boxing match. His heart pounded from sleep to trouble. Keep your guard up, you must protect yourself at all times. Now shake hands and come out fighting. Make it a clean fight, gentlemen.
In college, Matt was a stand-up clean boxer. No cheap-shots, no rabbit punches.
He shook off the disorientation of a deep sleep to realize he was in bed and not in a boxing ring.
Big Ben glowed 5 a.m.
“Hello.”
“Dr. Drummond, you're needed at the hospital,” she said.
Her voice was cigarettes and coffee and booze after work. She coughed.
“What? I can't give blood for another couple of months.”
“We don't need your famous blood type this time, we need you.”
Matt shook his head, rubbed his Mickey Mantle athlete's brush cut and yawned.
“My internship hasn't started. I'm just a medical student. I don't know anything. I could hurt the patients.”
“Not these guys.”
“Because?”
“They're dead as mackerels.”
“Dead? Why?”
“A riot.”
“Where?”
“Westside, Twelfth and Clairmont. The real doctors have been operating all night. It shows no sign of stopping.”