Doing Harm by Kelly Parsons

late nights I spent in college with my fellow geeks, hunched in cheap, wooden dorm chairs in front of our computers, strung out on beer and Mountain Dew and Fritos, amusing ourselves by slipping in and out of supposedly secure systems with impunity. These days, distracted by the burden of more adult pursuits like work and fatherhood, I’ve grown a little soft, and my skills aren’t quite as sharp as they once were.
    But they’re good enough.
    Despite all of her formidable talents, Sally isn’t the most organized of people. In fact, she’s constantly writing reminders to herself on sticky notes and posting them all over the house: which, of course, usually ends up defeating their purpose, since who can possibly keep track of them? Most end up carpeting the front of our refrigerator, merging into a multicolored quilt of phone numbers and to-do lists, bits of which flutter and drop to the floor like autumn leaves every time someone opens the refrigerator door.
    Back when Sally was still working in Human Resources at University, part of her job was to oversee the electronic personnel files of all of University’s employees—a position which, she confided to me at the time, gave her access to sensitive data on just about everyone from the hospital CEO down to the guy who waxes the floors. So when I happened one day across Sally’s University computer ID and password, scrawled on a bright purple note stuck to the side of our home computer, I just couldn’t help myself: My hacker instincts immediately kicked in, and I surreptitiously, if not a little guiltily, copied them down. I didn’t use them, of course. For the most part, the University IT guys were, and still are, a bunch of idiots. Their security is a joke. But on the off chance I ever got caught breaking into the system, Sally would have been fired; so instead, I tucked them away for safekeeping. Just in case.
    And then, right after Sally quit her job, I signed in to the system using her account, before the University IT folks had shut off her access. The rest was laughably simple: I made a few minor adjustments to the account so that it couldn’t be traced back to Sally; and then, just to be sure, arranged the access to automatically run through a commonly used computer at a nursing station located on one of the busiest patient care floors in the hospital. That way, if anyone ever became suspicious, they’d trace everything back to that one computer, which dozens of different people use every day.
    I’ve had unfettered access to the personnel files, and a whole bunch of other confidential information that runs through the Human Resources Department, ever since. Disciplinary actions. Malpractice suits. Medical-board inquiries. Patient complaints.
    I’m not a creepy guy. Really. I’m just jazzed by the fact that I’ve pulled one over on the powers that be. I think it appeals to my basic hacker sensibilities. Just knowing that I have instantaneous access to this kind of data anytime I want is enough. It’s not like I troll around the system, digging up dirt on my colleagues, or anything. In fact, even though I know exactly where to look, I’ve never before pulled the personnel files on any of the people I work with.
    Until now.
    Strong hands.
    My head buzzing, I steal one more peek at my insensate companion in the massage chair, crack my knuckles, sign in to the system, and access GG’s file.
    Born in Pasadena, California. Undergraduate degree from MIT in electrical engineering, with highest honors. Marshall Scholarship to study bioengineering and organizational systems at Oxford University in England. Honors in every single one of her classes thus far at University Medical School. Truly, an overachiever’s overachiever.
    My cell phone abruptly buzzes in its hip holster. I take it out and look at the screen. The caller ID reads “Home.”
    “Hi, sweetheart.” I clench the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I quickly close GG’s file.
    “Hi, sweetie.