“Good Lord,” he breathed. Then he turned and yelled into the woods, “Mike! Get over here! I found her—she’s alive!”
The man was a local game warden named Sam. Despite his size, he came down the slick bank in a matter of minutes. Another older man followed, quiet, carrying a radio clipped to his belt.
Sam shrugged off his warm jacket and draped it over Valerie’s shoulders. She didn’t resist. She just pulled it around herself gratefully.
“How in the world did you survive down here?” he asked, looking her over carefully from a respectful distance, afraid to hurt her by touching the wrong place.
“Five days,” Valerie said softly. “I’ve been here five days.”
“Your mama’s neighbor got worried back on Saturday,” Sam said. “At first folks figured you got delayed somewhere. Cell service out here is terrible.”
“By Monday morning she had people out looking. Men have been combing this area for two days. But from the road, you can’t see the vehicle through these bushes.”
“The SUV slid off the road into the gully,” Valerie whispered.
Sam looked at her leg, at the filthy dressing soaked brown, then at her belly, then at her face with its cracked lips and hollow cheeks. “Mike, call for the helicopter now. This is bad.”
Two long hours later, Valerie was in the air on the way to the hospital.
The rotor noise hammered at her ears. The flight medic started an IV in the helicopter, checked her blood pressure, and listened to the baby with a portable monitor.
“Fetal heartbeat is there. Rhythm’s good,” he said. At those words Valerie closed her eyes and finally let herself go limp.
Bright white light. A clean ceiling. Voices sounding far away, as if underwater. Valerie drifted in a comfortable half-consciousness. Through the haze she heard the clatter of wheels and smelled the sharp, familiar scent of hospital antiseptic. Fast hands were removing the old dressing from her leg.
Then someone cried out in horror. A young male voice, high and panicked. “What is that? How did this happen? Oh my God—”
A stool crashed over, then hurried footsteps as someone bolted into the hall. The exam room door slammed. Valerie wanted desperately to say, Don’t touch it. That’s treatment.
But her lips would not work. She only managed to move the fingers of her left hand against the cold slick edge of the exam table.
Then came those heavy, confident footsteps. The rustle of a disposable gown. The smell of plain soap. Someone tall bent over her. She could feel warm, steady breath near her face.
The room went quiet. Long and taut. Then a low, calm voice said, “Hold the panic. Don’t touch the wound yet. Look closely—where exactly are they moving?”
Silence again.
Then the same voice, quieter now, almost thinking aloud: “They’re staying strictly on the damaged tissue. Healthy flesh is untouched. Not one bit of it.”
“This is maggot therapy,” he said with unmistakable professional respect.
At the familiar term, Valerie forced her eyes open. Above her was a bright ceiling light, and beneath it the face of an older man with gray at the temples and deep lines around the mouth.
He looked at her the way one professional looks at another after seeing something remarkable. No fear. No disgust. Just respect.
“Can you hear me?” he asked clearly.
Valerie gave the smallest nod.
“I’m Dr. Maslow, chief surgeon. You’re at the county hospital. They brought you in by helicopter.” He paused, studying her face.
“Tell me honestly—did you do this yourself? Did you apply these larvae on purpose?”
Valerie gathered what strength she had and nodded again.
Maslow drew in a deep breath, the kind a smart man takes when a puzzle suddenly makes sense. He turned sharply to the resident.
