Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
There’s an edge of malice in his tone, but since it appears more directed at his father than me, I let his threat slide. “The main indicators are weakness, tiredness, and lightheadedness. Constipation, diarrhea, loss of appetite…” My words trail off when many of the symptoms I spout off match the ones shared with me today.
Maksim groans when I leap off him and race into the room where I dumped my purse when he started ravishing my neck, but remains quiet when I tug my cell phone out of my purse and select a frequently called number.
A nurse in the pediatric ward answers a short time later. “Pediatric department, Nurse Kelley speaking.”
“Was Yulia Petrovitch’s insurance company billed for an MMA or homocysteine test?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yulia Petrovitch, the patient from Room 3A, were her B12 levels checked?”
I groan in frustration when she asks, “Who is this?”
“It is Dr. Hoffman.” Maksim’s growl is deeper and sterner than my bark when a department nurse fails to keep abreast with the patients in the ward. “Yulia was brought in with severe stomach cramps and abdominal distention. Her initial diagnosis was food poisoning with cystitis of the lower tract, but her symptoms are mimicking ones of a patient I diagnosed earlier this month. She could also have a B12 deficiency.”
Nurse Kelley takes her time replying, so I expect more than a blasé response. “Yulia was discharged this evening.”
“I am aware of that. I wrote her discharge paperwork. But that isn’t what I’m asking. Did her blood workup include the MMA or homocysteine tests?”
“No. There is no indication either of those tests were performed.”
Her tone indicates she doesn’t like being shouted at, but since it is effective, I don’t offer an apology. I simply lower the volume of my voice to a respectable level. “Can you please request the additional tests.”
She assumes I am asking a question. I am not. “The patient has been discharged—”
“So? That doesn’t mean our medical care ends the instant she leaves the hospital.”
“With all due respect, Dr. Hoffman, I believe you are wrong.” No buzzes of patients’ bells or code blue alarms sound, but she acts like they’re ringing off the hook. “I have patients who require my assistance.”
She hangs up on me, making me fuming mad.
“She… That… Ugh!” I grip my cell phone hard enough that I almost crack the screen. “Can you believe the hide of that woman? She’s one of those people who should leave the profession the instant she no longer cares. They’re the people giving the rest of us a bad…” My words trail off when my twist to face Maksim unearths that he is on a call. I didn’t hear him dial a number, much less speak.
I mouth an apology before slumping onto a couch that’s so new I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it still has its price tag attached.
I’ve only just cradled my head in my hands when Maksim crouches down in front of me. “Which test does the hospital generally use?”
When I peer at him, lost, a unique accent sounds out of his iPhone. “It will be less suspicious to the insurance assessor if we use the standard billing code Myasnikov Private uses.”
I’m completely and utterly lost, and my stupidity deepens when Maksim opens his laptop and spins it to face me. He’s logged into HIS, Myasnikov Private’s health information system, and in the program where doctors and nurses order blood workups for inpatients.
“Which one?” Maksim asks as the cursor bounces between the MMA and homocysteine check boxes.
He isn’t moving the cursor. His finger isn’t close to the trackpad of his MacBook Pro, so it must be being controlled remotely.
Too shocked not to interrogate, I ask, “How do you have access to HIS? That is a private server.”
“A private server with shit security. It didn’t even take me two seconds to bypass their outdated firewall,” answers a southern voice from Maksim’s cell.
After bouncing his eyes between my wide gaze for several heart-thumping seconds, Maksim asks, “Do you want to test Yulia for a B12 deficiency?”
“Yes,” I answer, since it is the truth.
But I don’t know if I can do it like this.
I don’t know if I can break the law to help a patient.
When my heart calls me a liar two seconds before my head, I say, “The second one. These tests are rarely approved, but that’s the one they used to diagnose your mother’s condition.”
“Irina is s—”
“Order the test, and if you face any trouble with the billing side of things, make sure those inquiries are forwarded directly to me,” Maksim interrupts, his tone stern.
“There won’t be any issues.” Keys being clicked sound out of Maksim’s phone before the unnamed man says, “You know where to reach me if you need me.”
He hangs up on Maksim as quickly as the nurse did me, but Maksim seems more relieved than annoyed.