Just when she had decided to lie down again, an urgent rap on the door had her sitting up, ramrod straight, breaking into an anxious sweat. She quickly donned her slippers and robe and hurried to the door. She peered through the peephole. At first she saw nobody. But then a shadow fell across the peephole and suddenly she was looking right into Lincoln Burrow's very alarming wide-awake eye. She jumped back and tried to recover her runaway breath, and yet opened the door to him in the same moment.
"Doctor," Lincoln rasped urgently as soon as he was looking into her face. "I need your help."
"Come in," she directed him. The escaped convict stepped through her door and stood uncertainly on the rug in her foyer.
"What's the matter?" Sara asked, getting right to the point.
"Can you come with me?" Lincoln asked without further ceremony. "Michael's hurt. He needs a doctor." Lincoln's eyes told her everything she needed to know. This was a request born of need and desperation.
"Of course," Sara answered, her heart beating staccato. "Give me a minute to get changed."
Lincoln nodded and looked away shyly. She ran back to her bedroom and threw on the clothes she had worn the day before, as it was the easiest outfit to find on short notice. While she dressed she thought about the day she had just experienced. She'd never seen anything in her life like the events that had unfolded over the past 24 hours. The prisoners that had broken out of Fox River earlier that evening had apparently disappeared into the surrounding countryside without a trace.
Michael had told her about the breakout hours before it occurred. She had been so confused and disturbed that she had left the prison. Consequently, she hadn't learned about the breakout until she'd gotten home that night.
Now here was Michael's brother with the very news she had dreaded. Michael was hurt, maybe even dying.
"How bad is he?" Sara asked as she grabbed her sweatshirt.
"He was shot in the shoulder. We tried to stop the bleeding, but he doesn't look good." Lincoln's explanation was cryptic. Sara could hear the tears he was trying to hold back.
"I'll need my bag," she observed. Sara pointed at the hall closet which Lincoln opened for her. He scanned the inside before stepping back and allowing her access. A tan backpack lay on the floor of the closet next to a black athletic bag. Both appeared to be bulging. Sara indicated that he was to carry the black bag. She shouldered the backpack.
She followed him outside to the curb where his car was parked, half on the street and half on the curb. He'd been in a hurry, she could see. He held the door for her as she climbed into the passenger side of a rusty black mustang. Sara fastened her seatbelt very deliberately when Lincoln turned the key and she heard the asthmatic car choke into tenuous life. In spite of the car's dubious ability, Lincoln floored the pedal and careened down the road like a man possessed. Sara began to feel real fear, not for herself, but for the man she was being brought to help. If his condition had his brother this upset, he must be in bad shape.
"What's in the bags?" Lincoln asked as he drove.
"Everything I could throw in at work yesterday," Sara answered quietly, causing Lincoln to raise an eyebrow in surprise.
"Why?"
"I came back to the infirmary after I heard about the escape. I had a feeling one of you might need me eventually. The police and guards were in there, so I said I was taking some stuff home to keep it safe until the locks could be changed."
Lincoln glanced over at her with a look of grateful amazement.
"You had a feeling?" He repeated incredulously.
"Yeah, I guess I did."
"You and Michael…"
"How much longer before we get there?" Sara interrupted, not yet ready to be questioned about a relationship she didn't understand herself.
"Another 15 or 20 minutes," Lincoln replied.
"Who else is with you? Is anyone else hurt?"
"Veronica- my attorney- was supposed to meet us at the cabin but she hasn't shown up yet. Two other inmates are with us but they're not hurt. We got separated from the others in the rush to get away from the prison. Michael was shot climbing over the wall. He managed to keep up with us for hours but when we got to the cabin, he collapsed. He's been unconscious since." The worry had crept back into Lincoln's voice.
They were in the country now, and the road had shrunk to two lanes and was winding through hills. Sara gazed out of the window trying not to dwell on all the scenarios running through her tortured mind.
"Doctor," Lincoln's voice interrupted her dark thoughts.
"Hmm," she answered.
"Thank you," he said roughly. She heard what he couldn't say in his tone of voice.
"You don't have to thank me. I had to come. Michael thinks I'm upset with him. I guess I am, in a sense, but the truth is, I'd do just about anything for him. I don't know why, but I would."
"Michael has a way of growing on a person," Lincoln agreed. "But so do you. Michael talks about you like you're a superhero."
Sara blushed and smiled. "I guess patching up burns, maimings, and knife wounds is the way to Michael's heart," she joked.
"Apparently," Lincoln jokingly agreed.
"We're here," Lincoln announced, pulling into a driveway Sara wouldn't have seen if he hadn't turned. Trees completely overshadowed the small gravel lane, meeting above the car in a dark canopy. The ruts in the road caused the old car to pitch violently. The fact that Lincoln hadn't slowed down much since leaving the paved road was making the sharp bumps and jabs that much worse. Thankfully, within a few minutes they pulled up in a clearing next to a log cabin. Smoke curled out of the chimney and the dimness of an electrical light far within reached them. Lincoln grabbed her bag and Sara followed him inside with the backpack, both jogging. Sucre was there to meet them.
"How's Michael?" Lincoln demanded tensely.
"Still alive," Sucre answered cryptically.
Sara practically knocked them over to get to Michael's bedside. She took one look at his ashen face and turned to them.
"Has he lost a lot of blood?"
"Yeah," they answered in unison.
Sara placed two fingers on the pulse point of his wrist and counted the weak beats under her fingertips. Satisfied that he was hanging in there, she looked around the room for a place to hang a bag of IV fluids.
"What do you need?" Lincoln asked.
"A floor lamp or something to hang the IV from."
Lincoln quickly had a suitable frame for her use, and it took her less than a minute to get the precious fluids flowing into a port attached to Michael's hand. She turned her attention to the wound itself.
"Wait for me outside. I'll call you if I need assistance," Sara commanded, now in full doctor mode.
It was almost an hour later that Sara rejoined the men out in the common room, leaving Michael to recuperate. Lincoln and Sucre both were dozing, but sat up, awake and full of concern, when she padded into the room on sock covered feet.
"He's going to be okay," she reported. "His blood pressure and pulse are both good. I stitched up the wound. He'll be sore for a while, but he should wake up soon."
Both men smiled with relief. Lincoln stood up and offered her the couch.
"Um, you can sleep here if you're tired, doctor. Are you hungry? We have some peanut butter and bread."
"No, I'm not hungry, but thank you. I think I'll get a few hours of sleep. That sounds good."
"I'll take you back in the morning," Lincoln offered.
Sara was silent for a minute.
"I don't want you to risk being found for me," she finally said. "And, I think Michael might need a doctor for another day or so."
"Thanks," Lincoln whispered gratefully. "Good night."
TBC