Chapter Twenty-One
Ashleigh
Anders Sorenson is a man with an exceptionally stern expression, with pale hair, high cheekbones, and wintry, pale blue eyes. He sets up a makeshift triage room in the second floor of the Den that could rival any actual hospital room. In short order, without judgment, Ky is hooked up to an IV. The diagnosis includes big words such as tachycardia, hypertension, and coronary vasospasm.
“To put it in layman’s terms,” he says to me. “Crack cocaine significantly increases the rate of oxygen usage in the body. There’s a possibility here of a seizure, a coronary event. Sudden death becomes more likely the higher the hyperthermia.”
Sutton makes a growling sound. “Those aren’t layman’s terms.”
“He’s having a very bad trip,” Anders says.
“What can we do for him?” I’
