For Devon Harris, Wednesday was a regular day, when the third banger appeared at the door before the sun started trying to burn through the perpetual haze, it was clear that something big was going down. He called in the full staff by 0800 and around noon he was finishing his second surgery, removing 2 bullets from the leg of a kid half his age that had cussed him worse than he had ever heard.
Doctor Harris, Devon’s dad, stopped him on the way back into pre-op, “I got the next one, Devon, take a break and ‘Ring the Bell’, see if we can get some help for the overnight. Also, check the inventories, we are already drawing on the secondary sources (“The shadow clinic” Devon thought), we are going to run of gauze and antibiotics by morning, and I don’t even want to think about what we are already out of.”
Ringing the Bell involved contacting the dozen or so medically trained personnel that his father would trust to change an IV in his clinic and a few street docs that ran their own shops in the Barrens. The reputable folks, Harris didn’t do business with organleggers. After a half an hour of making calls, it was clear they were in a real crisis. He had taken on three new patients and had gotten no assistance what-so-ever lined up, everyone was swamped and running on empty. Devon couldn’t imagine what these people (He refused to call them colleagues, even though they thought of him that way. It wasn’t something he had earned yet) were going through, he knew the Harris Clinic was better supported than most.
He realized he was going to have to get dirty, he contacted TwoToes and put the word out. His dad was paying top dollar and he himself was ready to go ‘find’ the stuff they needed.