[color=00aeef]FRIEDA RICHTER[/color] - Salem Clinic -- mid-afternoon

"Yes well...obviously he's suffering from some severe food poisoning," Arthur announced, "Probably brought on by some unwholesome meat or spoiled vegetables. Nothing to worry about I can treat him in my office."

"Ah.  Yes, I've...seen that before, once or twice," Frieda replied, cryptically.

Arthur then helped him up and began escorting him gently towards the staircase, making sure to keep the bin close at hand in case the man had the urge to vomit again, "Uh...oh yes.." he said, remembering something and turning back to Frieda, "Thank you for the lunch Ms. Richter it was very much appreciated. If you don't mind holding down the fort here a bit longer while I treat this man, I'd be grateful. I'll..uh...just be a moment."

"I -- wait a sec --" she called after him, watching him retreat up the stairs with the patient.  She rubbed her brow, wondering if it were necessary to drag the poor wretch all the way up the stairs for a glass of water and some dry crackers.  But, what did she know?  She already admitted the most she knew about first aid involved bandaids and deep breaths.  Frieda thought he might be avoiding her, to some degree, but that didn't seem unusual to her, either.  Just yesterday she all but told Steve to fuck off when he asked her where she was from, and all she wanted was a cigarette.

A cigarette.

The craving smashed into her like a load of bricks.  She walked out the main entrance and lit up almost immediately.  Frieda eyed the pack and frowned.  Had she really smoked half of them, since last night?

She reflected on the fact she still had no money, and no way to buy Brandy dinner, let alone barter another pack of smokes off her.  How was the supply back home so endless, and up here, she couldn't keep up with her own vices?

[i]Addiction is a powerful thing.[/i]

The scuffle of a pair of booted feet going by caused her to look up and regard Barney Rook puffing on his own cigarette.  "Hey!" she called to him.  He looked over, raised an eyebrow, but continued walking.  "HEY!!" she repeated, daring to take two steps out of the clinic.  "I need to talk to you, but I can't leave.  Can you come over here, please?"

Barney chuckled, but complied.  "What do you want?"

"Look.  I need money.  You need people in your militia.  We all need a safe clinic.  Do you agree?"

Barney shrugged.  "I guess.  Why?"

"I want you to put me on the payroll, as clinic guard."  

Barney took a drag of his cigarette.  "That ain't on the list.  We need folk to keep out the riff raff and the wildlife, not stand around in front of others who're pukin' and bleedin'."

"Yeah, well," Frieda took a step towards Barney, putting her entire essence much too close to him for either person's comfort.  "Have you met the doc?  He isn't exactly...calloused, let's say.  Kind of 'Vault fresh,' if that means something to you?  And besides that, I don't think he knows which end is the business end of a gun."  She made a point of sizing up the man in front of her, in an attempt to appear intimidating.  "You know what happens if he ends up hurt, or worse?  We go from having a competent medical professional in our midsts -- who, by the way, refuses to take any money for treatment he performs -- to hoping none of us get so much as a scratch out here in the middle of Massachusetts."

Barney blinked.  "Middle of where?"

"The Commonwealth," Frieda quickly corrected.  "So, are you gonna pay me, or not?"

"Suppose I could put you on [i]probation[/i]," Barney mumbled.  "The doc is important, that much is true.  An' I guess we'll find out if you're as good as worth payin' soon enough."

Frieda internally rejoiced.  "I won't let you down, sir," she rattled reflexively.

Barney rubbed the back of his neck.  "See that you don't," and with that, he'd shuffled off.

[i]Score one for me,[/i] she thought to herself with a smile.  Frieda re-settled herself against the doorframe, twirling the scissors.