According to the printout, Sammie’s blood had no recognisable type. In fact, the analyser spat out nothing but errors. It was as though Tim had loaded the centrifuge with motor oil instead of blood. It made no sense. He was considering running his own blood just to make sure the machine wasn’t faulty. “Where’s Angela?” Frank asked, appearing in the corridor behind Tim. “She went out to get some fresh air. Not feeling too good after all the blood.” “About that,” Frank said sternly. “What the hell happened?” “Hell if I know. One minute the kid’s skin is like concrete and the next he’s opening up like a cantaloupe.” “You had no right to take his blood. You’re not qualified.” Tim stood in front of the larger man and looked him in the eye. “Hey, you gave me the go ahead. You could have stopped me if you’d wanted. Besides, I did everything by the book. I didn’t cause that bleeding.” “Then what did?” “I don’t know,”
