Page 7 of Guess Again
“And, I remember,” Pete continued, “you also left because the hours were terrible. But my recon tells me that you’re barely an hour into an overnight shift that’s surely going to screw up your melatonin output and circadian rhythm. So I guess you make more money now, but you still got the short end of the stick.”
“Ichooseto work overnights because they buy me time after I work a straight week of them.”
“You’ve got some gray in your temples that you didn’t have when you and I were working together.”
“Ten years will do that.”
Ethan stood up and broadened his smile. “What thehellare you doing here, Pete?”
“Can’t a man come see his old friend without ulterior motives?”
Ethan knew Pete Kramer was in his ERonlyfor ulterior motives. Once best of friends, their relationship had soured since Ethan abandoned their partnership to pursue a career in medicine.
“I just started my shift, Pete. And we’ve got an ER full of patients. Is this an emergency or can it wait until tomorrow?”
Ethan watched his old partner straighten up and take his elbows off the counter. He took a few steps to his left, and Ethan noticed the profound limp Pete carried. And now that he looked more closely, after the surprise of seeing his old friend after so many years had worn off, he noticed the ashen tone of Pete’s face.
Ethan slowly lifted his chin. “Are you sick, Pete?”
“Worse than that, pal. I’m dying, and I need a favor before they put me six feet under.”
CHAPTER 6
Madison, Wisconsin Wednesday, May 28, 2025
“ALS?” ETHAN REPEATED AS HE SAT WITHPETE IN THE DOCTOR’Slounge. It explained the limp and subtle slur Ethan heard when his old friend spoke.
“Good old Lou Gehrig’s Disease. Every specialist I’ve seen has said it’s a real son of a bitch. Most people don’t make it three years after diagnosis. What do you know about it, E? And don’t sugarcoat it.”
Ethan knew too much about amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. It was a progressive nervous system disease for which there was neither a cure nor any great treatments. Receiving an ALS diagnosis was akin to being handed a death certificate. The only variable was how long it took to kill you. Pete’s limp and slur were likely the first visible symptoms. Ethan knew there were others quietly creeping inside Pete’s body that would soon rear their ugly head.
“It’s not good,” Ethan finally said.
“How fast does it move?”
“It’s different for everyone. You breathing okay?”
Pete shook his head. “I’m short of breath all the time. And not from exerting myself. Sometimes I’m just watching television and suddenly have a hard time catching my breath.”
Ethan considered holding his tongue for a moment, but knew his old partner would call him out.
“That’s bad, Pete. When it gets to the lungs . . . it’s nasty and it’s fast.” Ethan paused. “Sorry.”
“Ah, you’re not telling me anything I haven’t read. I guess I just wanted to hear it from someone I trusted.”
If his friend made it a year, Ethan would be stunned.
“Any wacky stuff out there?” Pete asked. “Eastern medicine, or stem cell, or experimental crap?”
“It’s not my area of expertise, Pete. But I can put you in touch with some specialists I know. See if they tell you anything different.”
Pete shook head. “Been to the best in Milwaukee, Chicago, and Cleveland. Even spent a week up at Mayo. They all told me the same thing.”
“They give you a timeframe?”
“None were that blunt, but looks like about a year. Nine months until the shit hits the fan if my breathing keeps declining—ventilator and all that crap.”
“Sorry, Pete. I didn’t know you were sick, or I’d have reached out.”
