My pulse raced. Something was very, very wrong.
“David, wake up!” I shook him, panicked. “We have to go to the hospital right away!”
He laughed a groggy laugh and said, “Calm down, darling, it’s just a rash.”
But I refused to listen. “No,” I said, trembling. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Please, let’s go.”
We rushed to the emergency room at Memphis General Hospital. When the attending physician lifted David’s shirt, his expression instantly changed. The usually calm and polite doctor paled and shouted to the nurse beside him:
“Call 911, right now!”
My blood ran cold. Call the police? For a rash?
“What’s going on?” I stammered. “What’s wrong with him?”
The doctor didn’t answer. A few moments later, two other members of the medical staff rushed in. They covered David’s back with sterile sheets and began questioning me urgently:
“Has your husband been in contact with any chemicals recently?”
“What is his job?”
“Has any other member of your family experienced similar symptoms?”
My voice trembled as I replied, “He works in construction. He’s been working on a new site these past few months. He was tired, but we thought it was just exhaustion.”
Fifteen minutes later, two police officers arrived. The room fell silent, except for the hum of medical equipment. My knees buckled. Why were the police there?
After a long wait, the doctor returned. His voice was calm but firm:
“Mrs. Miller,” he said gently, “don’t panic. Your husband doesn’t have an infection. These marks aren’t natural. We think someone did it on purpose.”
