Four minutes later when the medical resident, Jerry Donovan, arrived, Pamela, Rose, and Trudy had the EKG machine hooked up and running. Unfortunately it traced a flat, monotonous line. On the positive side, Bruce’s color had improved slightly from its former grayish blue.

Jerry saw the flat EKG indicating no electrical activity, and, like Pamela, he hit the patient on the chest. No response. He checked the pupils: widely dilated and fixed. Behind Jerry was an intern named Peter Matheson, who climbed up on the bed and relieved Trudy. A disheveled medical student with long hair stood by the door.

“How long has this been going on?” asked Jerry.

“It’s been five minutes since I found him,” replied Pamela. “But I have no idea when he arrested. He wasn’t on the monitor. His skin was dark blue.”

Jerry nodded. For a split second he debated continuing resuscitation. He suspected the patient was already brain dead. But he still hadn’t come to terms with denying treatment. It was easier to go ahead.

“I want two amps of bicarbonate and some epinephrine,” barked Jerry as he took an endotracheal tube from the crash cart. Stepping behind the bed, he let Pamela inflate the lungs once more. Then he inserted the laryngoscope, an endotracheal tube, and attached an ambu bag, which he connected to the wall oxygen source. Resting his stethoscope on the patient’s chest and telling Peter to hold up for a second, he compressed the ambu bag. Bruce’s chest rose immediately.

“At least his airway is clear,” said Jerry, as much to himself as anyone.

The bicarbonate and epinephrine were given.

“Let’s give him calcium chloride,” said Jerry, watching Bruce’s face slowly turn a normal pink.

“How much?” asked Trudy, standing behind the crash cart.

“Five ccs of a ten-percent solution.” Turning back to Pamela he said, “What’s the patient in for?”