Terry Gilligan, something of a mascot on the neurosurgical service because of his dense brogue and infectious wit, was dead. His cardiac arrest had occurred during the early-morning hours and was intractable to the heroic efforts first of the nurses, then of the entire code team. He had been on assisted ventilation because of a seizure and borderline pulmonary reserve, and his tumor was a bad one. But no one had come close to giving up on him. On a morning that had begun so badly, Jessie was relieved that at last Carl had opted to stay around and see patients. With only her own work to attend to, her day gradually smoothed out. But nothing prepared her for what she found waiting when her afternoon clinic was over—waiting in room 6 of the neurosurgical ICU. When she arrived, the ubiquitous candy striper, Lisa Brandon, was rubbing lotion into Sara Devereau’s feet. “Well, hi,” Jessie said. “Here you are again.” “Here I am,” Lisa said cheerily.
