The Hospital Panic
We drove straight to Memphis General Hospital. The doctor examined David’s back — and his calm expression changed instantly.
He turned pale and shouted to the nurse, “Call 911 — now!”
My stomach dropped. Call the police? For a rash?
“What’s happening?” I asked, my voice shaking. “What’s wrong with him?”
The doctor didn’t answer. Within seconds, two more nurses came in. They covered David’s back with sterile sheets and started asking questions:
“Has your husband been around any chemicals recently?”
“What does he do for work?”
“Has anyone else in your family had these symptoms?”
I stammered, “He works construction. He’s been on a new site these past months. He’s been tired, but we thought it was just from overworking.”
When the Police Arrived
Fifteen minutes later, two police officers entered the room. Everything went silent except for the soft beeping of the monitors.
Why were the police here?
After what felt like forever, the doctor returned. His tone was calm but serious.
“Mrs. Miller,” he said gently, “please don’t panic. Your husband isn’t dealing with an infection. These marks weren’t caused naturally. Someone did this to him.”
I stared at him, speechless. “Someone… did this?”
He nodded. “We believe he was exposed to a chemical irritant — something that was applied directly to his skin. It caused a delayed reaction. You brought him in just in time.”
Tears filled my eyes. “But who would hurt him? And why?”
