For as long as she can possibly remember, Michael Brentwood (Scott Foley) has always been Amy's lifeline, the only person she can count on to heal her pain, not only emotionally but more importantly, physically. He's unbelievably kind, compassionate...
"So my grandma had it, my dad had it, and now I guess I have it too," said Candice, the young, attractive, pasty faced red headed girl that laid on the gurney before Andrew, clad in a hospital gown, a nasal cannula in her nostrils, "genetics suck. Was I genetically doomed to have asthma, or did god just pick me at random out of everyone else in my family? Do you know how much of a dork this is going to make me, carrying around an inhaler? Why not just throw in a pair of glasses with tape on them too?"
Andrew sighed deeply as he made a couple notations on the chart in his hands, pausing to rub at his tired eyes. He had been tossing and turning all night, hardly able to get any sleep when all he could do was think about Amy, the huge fight they had gotten into last night and the asshole that had been beating on her, whoever the hell he was. And when he finally did manage to drift off to sleep, his unconsciousness was filled with nightmares. Nightmares of Amy, getting beaten on, over and over and over again, and him, having no power to stop it, or getting beaten on himself as a result of protecting her.
Even an hour or two of sleep wasn't sufficient enough to prepare him for the twelve hour shift he had staggered out of bed for today. Since his arrival four hours ago, he had gone through not one, not two but three and a half cups of coffee. Unfortunately, no matter how many cups he drank, he couldn't seem to shake this overwhelming fatigue.
What the hell was up with her? Why couldn't she just tell him what happened? Why wouldn't she let him help her? Because she had a 'bodyguard' now? Who the hell was this guy anyway, well, besides a CSI? How did she meet him?
A voice suddenly pulled him from his thoughts. Candice's voice.
"Hello? Hello? Are you even listening to me?"
"Dr. Barnett?" A nurse called.
He blinked back his sleepiness and looked up from the chart in his hands, his gaze darting from Candice to the nurse across from him. "Sorry, what?"
"I believe your patient is talking to you," said Laura, the petite, dark-haired nurse, a somber expression on her bright-eyed and sun-kissed round face.
"Right," he retorted, gently nodding his head and meeting Candice's bewildered gaze. "Sorry. Uh..." He glanced down at the chart in his hands. "Do you have any history of asthma, heart disease or bronchitis? Anything like that?"
"You already asked that," the nurse told him.
"Yeah and I answered," Candice added.
Andrew exhaled sharply, scratching at the back of his head in frustration. "Damn it. Okay...are you taking any medications?"
"Other than your regular over the counter pills? No."
"Okay." He made a notation on her chart then looked up at her expectantly. "Are you allergic to any medications?"
"Amoxicillin, major puking fit, my stomach hates it. Have you called my dad yet?"
"He's on his way, honey," Laura assured her. "BP is a little high, 140/92 and pulse ox is stable at ninety-eight."
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