Foreman set his lips, getting more infuriated by the minute. Amber's argument didn't even make sense. If she really thought that the steroids would enhance the effect of the interferon, then how could she keep arguing that what Casey had was lupus? "Don't kid yourself that this was about what she needed," he said, his anger eclipsed suddenly by a sharp, hurtful stab of disappointment. He'd thought he could accept how Amber operated. That was before he'd known she'd deliberately pull a stunt like this. "This was about you proving a point." He let out a sharp, disgusted breath and took a few steps away, back towards Casey's room. He couldn't keep up this conversation if Amber didn't even understand how she'd screwed up. Casey was better; that was good. Their next step, though, depending on nothing more informed than a coin flip, might make them all look like idiots again, running around with their heads cut off.

Casey was sitting forward, rubbing at her legs. Foreman frowned, watching, and then he quickly opened the door and stepped inside. "Your legs hurt?" he asked.

"No." Wide-eyed, frantic, Casey looked up at him. "I can't feel them. I don't think I can move."

Dread settled in the pit of Foreman's stomach. God. This wasn't lupus or MS. A new symptom this late in Casey's stay? Any other day, he'd immediately start chasing down infections. Something viral. If he didn't think it had been them. Amber. Fuck, they might have fried her immune system, pumping her full of contradictory treatments. "Okay, I need you to stay calm, Casey." Foreman pressed his palms against the bottoms of her feet and started running through a standard exam. "Press against my hands with both feet." Nothing. "That's good. Now one at a time, left first..." Nothing again, and Foreman quickly tested both feet with a needle jab. Not even a flinch. Ascending paralysis. Christ, what had they done?