He was very pale and his lips were growing blue. He was probably bleeding internally. And his breathing was getting worse again. Livia didn’t need Carl to tell her. The punctured lung was leaking air into his chest cavity. Tension pneumothorax, as Carl had feared.
“Come on, Andrew, say the words!” she said.
He nodded. “Little Miss Muffet,” he panted. “Sat . . . sat on a tuffet.”
Livia looked at the red light at the base of the microphone. It blinked three times . . . and then stayed red.
“Is there more?” she said. “Do you need to say more?”
Schrader didn’t answer. She felt Diaz’s hand on her shoulder again.
“Say it with me,” Diaz said, looking at him. “Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet . . .”
“Eating . . .” Schrader panted. “Eating her curds and whey.”
The light stayed red again. “Is that it?” Livia said.
Schrader nodded weakly.
“It didn’t work,” Livia said. “Do you have to say the whole thing together?”
“Y . . . yes.”
Livia held the microphone closer to his lips. “Then do it! Come on, Andrew, it’s just a rhyme. You’ve said it a hundred times before. Just say it.”
He looked at Diaz. “I can’t breathe. Am I . . . am I going to die?”
“No,” Diaz said, though she must have known it was a lie. “You’re going to be fine. And you can still do the right thing, Andrew. Don’t you want that?”
“I’m scared,” he panted. “Can I have more of that cocktail?”
“As soon as you say the words,” Diaz said. “Just say them, Andrew. You’re not a mean guy. You’re a nice guy. Come on now. Little Miss Muffet . . .”
Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “Please, it hurts.”
“Come on!” Livia shouted. “Little Miss Muffet! Just say the words, say the fucking words!”
“We need to take that seal off,” Carl said. “Or vent it. Labee, look at him.”
She was looking. The veins on the sides of his neck were bulging. She knew he had only minutes. Maybe seconds.
Diaz touched the side of his face and turned his head so he was looking into her eyes. “Andrew,” she said, so calmly it was almost a coo. “Say the words with me. Like you promised. Just a few words and we’re done. Ready? Little Miss Muffet . . .”
Schrader said it with her. “Little Miss Muffet . . .”
Livia was gripping the microphone so hard it was beginning to shake.
“Sat on a tuffet . . . ,” Diaz and Schrader said together.
“Eating her curds and whey,” Diaz said. But Schrader didn’t finish. He made it through eating, then stopped, his breathing fast and shallow.
“It’s no good,” Carl said. “He’s going into shock.” He pulled a catheter out of its packaging.
“Say the words!” Livia shouted.
Carl shoved her aside. “Damn it, Labee, he’s not going to be able to say anything if we don’t get that air out of his chest!” He felt for the space above the third rib and plunged in the catheter. There was a loud hiss as the air around Schrader’s injured lung whooshed out.
Little Miss Muffet, Livia thought, as though she could will Schrader to say it. Little Miss Muffet, come on . . .
Schrader moaned, and for a moment, she thought he might rally. But then his breathing got faster, and shallower. His skin went gray and his eyes rolled up.