She’s picking up on all the ways I don’t belong, or maybe my fragile, fucked-up state of mind. She’s picking up on something.
I try for a serene smile. “These guys are fine. I’m good.”
What with all of the sedation and restraint, not to mention the watchful orderlies at my beck and call, I couldn’t be safer from these men, especially compared with a lot of the subjects I interviewed out in the field in my long-ago days as a reputable journalist.
A lot of those interview subjects were just as imbalanced as these men, except they usually had assault weapons. And the only meds they were on was coffee and maybe alcohol, not the greatest combo when you’re a dangerous madman.
And yes, Donny, twisted king of the orderlies, will probably try to push me as far as possible.
But it’s the antiseptic smell that’s my kryptonite.
Six months ago, I would’ve laughed if anybody had tried to hand me an assignment like this. I was the intrepid girl reporter you sent to Bhutan or Somalia or Syria. I was the one riding around in Jeeps and Hummers, sitting with fixers in shitty little cafés waiting to meet some of the most interesting people in the world, chasing that fucking story. I lived for the story.
And if it involved the underdog, or the crazy militia leader, or somebody going for the impossible? Sign me up!
Now I’m counting supplies for an editor with a conspiracy theory he thinks the cops are ignoring. I was luckyStormlineneeded somebody with a nursing degree.
But this is how I’ll dig myself out of the burnt and blackened crater of my career. I’ll investigate the shit out of this supply-chain thing. I’ll do it like it’s the best, most important assignment I ever got. TheStormlineeditor will vouch for me on the next one. Then I’ll investigate and write the shit out of that one, and so on.
I’ll focus on the story in front of me like it’s the most important one ever—that’s how I’ll dig out.
I close my eyes, heart pounding. The antiseptic smell is still getting to me, six months later. I thought I was ready.
I knew the smell would be here, but I thought it wouldn’t be a problem. This hospital is not under attack. Nobody will be getting trapped in here. It’s a world away from any war zone.
Worse, the smell is making me think about that kitten. I shake it out of my mind. I remind myself the kitten is fine.You stepped up and saved the kitten. You are a badass.
Well, I used to be a badass.
I don’t feel like a badass. The antiseptic smell is seriously fucking me up. I’ll be smelling it all night—I know it already. I won’t be able to sleep.
You don’t have to tell me how sexy a good downward spiral story is—I’m a journalist. I know.
There is nothing more delicious than the rich Ponzi-scheme guy in handcuffs. The arrogant rock star sliding into drug addiction. The high school heartthrob who was cruel to you who’s now cleaning your toilet.
I never thought I’d star in a downward spiral story of my own. I guess nobody does.
We head farther down the hall. I meet a hippie orderly who monitors four guys from a hub. I can tell that he would make an interesting subject, but I’m not writing that kind of piece. Meth. Supply chain.Stormline.
Donny, twisted king of the orderlies, comes up. Donny has neon running shoes, several empty ear piercings, and a strategy of showing you who’s boss by looking really hard at your tits. His eyes are small and frontally placed. Predator eyes.
“They’re ready for 34,” Donny says.
“Come on,” Zara says.
“What’s 34?”
“Patient 34,” Zara says. “Come on.”
He doesn’t get a name?I grab the cart and push it down the hall to where three orderlies are assembled, talking in low tones. They all have stun guns.
“What’s up?”
“We go three on standby for hellbeast,” Donny says, looking at me a little too hard. He’s the kind of guy who’s always up to something and who therefore can sense when you’re up to something.
I ratchet him up from problem to definite danger. And I see how things will play out, like a perfect storm—dangerously lechy Donny sensing a chink in my armor, Zara’s antagonism toward me, the indifference of the few other staff members I’ve met, the fact I’m on probation and, worse, not who I say I am.
Handle it.