"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I answered.
"Well, now that's out of the way, back here please," Kirchner said, tipping my chin back so that I was looking at him. He rattled through a series of questions that were both soothingly easy and incredibly invasive, which I answered more or less honestly. I may have lied a little about how well I felt, but I wanted to convince him that I should be allowed to go home. It seemed very urgent at the time.
For a while I forgot Lucas was even in the room, until he moved to leave and gave me a small, shy wave from the doorway. I found out later that he'd been the major conduit of information between the doctor and the rest of the bonfire party, in the first few minutes after they moved my unconscious body to the church and, well, panicked a whole lot. No doubt he was leaving to tell them I was awake.
"I'm going back to my office to get you a heart monitor," Kirchner said finally. "I want you to stay still and rest until I come back. I'm going to have Charles keep an eye on you, all right?"
I nodded and might have drifted off for a minute or two, since the next thing I recall is Charles, bending over and poking me in the forehead.
"Christopher?" he boomed, and the echo bounced around between my ears for a while.
"What?" I groaned.
"Just making sure you're still alive," he answered, and mercifully leaned back. Beyond him, it seemed like half the town was assembled – though, looking back, it was probably only a few of the church elders and pillars of the community, the kind who always get front-row seats in Low Ferry's dramatic moments.
"Do you need anything?" Charles asked. I thought about asking for water, but one of the elders piped up before I could.
"What you need are peppers," he said, voice firm and resolute. "Good for the circulation, get you back on your feet in no time."
"What if circulation's not his problem?" Jacob asked. His father, behind him, gave an emphatic nod. "He needs to see a city doctor."
"A little modern medicine couldn't hurt," Paula agreed, crossing her arms. "Have you thought about getting a pacemaker, Christopher?" she asked, a little more loudly than she needed to.
"A pacemaker? Why?" another man asked.
"Do you like peppers?" the first inquired.
"Not really," I said slowly.
"Hmpf! Proves my point!"
"Well, we don't know what the problem is," Charles said. "Best not to meddle too much until – "
"Mustard poultices every night and brisk walks in the cold are good for the constitution."
"Brisk walks in the cold? What do you think tonight was?" Paula inquired.
"Brisk walks in the cold where nobody jumps out at you from behind a tree, maybe," I suggested weakly, not that any kind of walking appealed at the moment.
"Sorry about that," Charles said contritely. "That isn't what did it, is it?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Maybe it's pneumonia," Jacob's father ventured. "I think vitamins."
"Peppers have vitamins!"
"Can't I go home?" I asked Charles.
"It's past midnight, and Kirchner wants to hook you up to a bunch of machines," Charles said. The argument – peppers versus bed rest versus pacemaker – was still going on around us and looked to be getting into really full swing.
"What is going on in here?" a new voice demanded, and everyone fell silent. I turned my head just enough to see Dr. Kirchner standing in the doorway, a bundle of wires in one hand. "Charles!"
"What?" Charles demanded.
"He's not a circus sideshow! Out, all of you."
"He wanted to see us," Paula protested, even as Charles began sheepishly herding them out of the room.
"I don't care if he wanted the moon!" Kirchner retorted as Charles boomed, "Everyone out!"
They filed out, still bickering, and Kirchner closed the door behind them. The silence was a deep relief. I relaxed and breathed slowly, my muscles objecting every time I inhaled. The CPR, probably, raising bruises on the skin that I could feel but not see. I didn't want to sleep lying on my back, but the chances of actual movement were pretty slim. Especially with Kirchner attaching all kinds of odd, cold patches and wires to my body.
"So," I said, while he fitted something onto my index finger. "How bad was it this time?"
He glanced up at my face for a hurried moment, then went back to fiddling with the machine. "You should rest, Christopher."
"I died, didn't I?"
"Your heart stopped briefly. That's why they call it heart failure."
"For how long?"
"Briefly," Kirchner said firmly.
"So you're saying I did die."
"Christopher..." Kirchner looked frustrated, not that I blame him. At the time, however, I was sick and scared and didn't have much room in all of that to think of someone else's feelings. "Yes, medically, you were dead for a little under a minute. That's not very long. Most people can hold their breath for a minute. Now, are you going to stay calm about all this or do I need to give you a sedative?"
"I'm fine," I said. "I'm not dead anymore."
"Good. Try and sleep."
I was out cold by the time Kirchner finished his work, and I didn't wake again until well into the following morning. Even then, I suspect the only reason I woke up was because Kirchner had to readjust some of his machines.
"Not that I'm going to be the one to kick you out of a church," he said to me, when he saw I was awake, "but you should consider a brisk walk in the cold as far as my car."
"Will there be peppers?" I asked. He smiled and began removing the machines.
"No."
"Away we go. Are you sure you're medically qualified?" I managed, sitting up. "I'm not positive the best solution for a man arisen from the dead is to put him on a church sofa for a night. Even with machines."
"Well, your vocal cords aren't damaged," he answered, helping me to stand. "And there's clearly no neurological dysfunction. You're doing very well, Christopher, considering the situation. I think you'd be happier at home, wouldn't you?"