posters warned, showing before and after photos of a beautiful blonde teenager who, after a scant year on meth, turned into a soulless crone with no teeth and festering wounds erupting from her once perfect skin. A number at the bottom was scribbled over, a crude drawing of a joint obscuring the last two digits. Another poster outlining the steps to performing CPR took up most of the remaining space. This one was vandalized with the usual graffiti you found in spaces like this: dirty limericks, phone numbers for loose women, and messages for various people to go fuck themselves.
Finally, the elevator doors groaned open and a bell dinged. A dimly lit hallway greeted them, and Jeffrey guessed the lights had been turned off so that patients could sleep. The emergency exit sign across from the elevator gave off a warm red glow, pointing toward a doorway at the very end of the hall. Jeffrey glanced around, holding the elevator doors open, wondering if they were on the wrong floor.
‘There’s the stripe,’ Sara whispered, indicating the single blue line on the floor. Jeffrey saw that it went to the right, past the emergency stairway and around the corner. He looked up the hall to the left, but all he could see were more patients’ rooms and another exit sign.
They followed the painted line to the nurses’ station. He realized as soon as they got there that the hallway circled around and that they could have just as easily taken a left and gotten to the same place.
‘This is why people hate hospitals,’ Jeffrey told Sara, keeping his voice low. ‘If they can’t make you feel sicker, they drive you crazy.’
Sara rolled her eyes, and Jeffrey remembered the first time he’d told Sara that he hated hospitals. Her response had been almost automatic: ‘Everybody hates hospitals.’
The nurses’ station was oblong, open at both ends, and packed to the gills with charts and colored sheets of paper. There was one desk with a lamp casting a harsh light over the blotter. A newspaper was folded to the crossword, some of the squares filled in. Jeffrey guessed from the half-eaten pack of crackers beside an open can of Diet Coke that whoever had been sitting there must’ve been called away mid-snack.
Sara leaned against the wall, arms folded over her chest. ‘The nurse must be making rounds.’
‘I guess we’ll wait here.’
‘We could find Lena on our own.’
‘I don’t think the sheriff would appreciate that.’
She gave him a curious look, as if she was surprised that he cared.
He was about to respond when he heard a toilet flush behind him. ‘Guess the nurse just finished her rounds.’
They both waited, Sara leaning against the wall, Jeffrey pacing, reading the signs that had been taped to some of the patients’ doors. ‘No Water.’ ‘No Solids.’ ‘No Unattended Toilet.’
Christ, they knew how to bring you low in these places.
He heard water running from the bathroom faucet, then the familiar squeak of a paper-towel dispenser. Seconds later, the door opened and a gray-haired man in a uniform came out. He did a double take when he saw Jeffrey. ‘Chief Tolliver?’
‘Jeffrey,’ he offered, walking over to shake the man’s hand. He realized a second too late that he wasn’t talking to the sheriff. The insignia on the dark brown and taupe uniform identified the man as a deputy. ‘This is my wife, Dr. Sara Linton.’
‘Donald Cook.’ The man shook Jeffrey’s hand, nodding at Sara. He had a loud, booming voice, and didn’t seem to be worried if he woke up any of the patients. ‘Sorry if I kept y’all waiting.’
Jeffrey got straight to the point. ‘How’s my detective doing?’
‘No trouble at all,’ Cook answered. ‘She’s been quiet as a mouse.’
In a different situation, Jeffrey would have made some joke about mistaken identity. ‘Was she burned? Your sheriff said there was some kind of explosion-‘
‘She’s got smoke inhalation, some cuts and scrapes. Doc says she’ll heal
Finally, the elevator doors groaned open and a bell dinged. A dimly lit hallway greeted them, and Jeffrey guessed the lights had been turned off so that patients could sleep. The emergency exit sign across from the elevator gave off a warm red glow, pointing toward a doorway at the very end of the hall. Jeffrey glanced around, holding the elevator doors open, wondering if they were on the wrong floor.
‘There’s the stripe,’ Sara whispered, indicating the single blue line on the floor. Jeffrey saw that it went to the right, past the emergency stairway and around the corner. He looked up the hall to the left, but all he could see were more patients’ rooms and another exit sign.
They followed the painted line to the nurses’ station. He realized as soon as they got there that the hallway circled around and that they could have just as easily taken a left and gotten to the same place.
‘This is why people hate hospitals,’ Jeffrey told Sara, keeping his voice low. ‘If they can’t make you feel sicker, they drive you crazy.’
Sara rolled her eyes, and Jeffrey remembered the first time he’d told Sara that he hated hospitals. Her response had been almost automatic: ‘Everybody hates hospitals.’
The nurses’ station was oblong, open at both ends, and packed to the gills with charts and colored sheets of paper. There was one desk with a lamp casting a harsh light over the blotter. A newspaper was folded to the crossword, some of the squares filled in. Jeffrey guessed from the half-eaten pack of crackers beside an open can of Diet Coke that whoever had been sitting there must’ve been called away mid-snack.
Sara leaned against the wall, arms folded over her chest. ‘The nurse must be making rounds.’
‘I guess we’ll wait here.’
‘We could find Lena on our own.’
‘I don’t think the sheriff would appreciate that.’
She gave him a curious look, as if she was surprised that he cared.
He was about to respond when he heard a toilet flush behind him. ‘Guess the nurse just finished her rounds.’
They both waited, Sara leaning against the wall, Jeffrey pacing, reading the signs that had been taped to some of the patients’ doors. ‘No Water.’ ‘No Solids.’ ‘No Unattended Toilet.’
Christ, they knew how to bring you low in these places.
He heard water running from the bathroom faucet, then the familiar squeak of a paper-towel dispenser. Seconds later, the door opened and a gray-haired man in a uniform came out. He did a double take when he saw Jeffrey. ‘Chief Tolliver?’
‘Jeffrey,’ he offered, walking over to shake the man’s hand. He realized a second too late that he wasn’t talking to the sheriff. The insignia on the dark brown and taupe uniform identified the man as a deputy. ‘This is my wife, Dr. Sara Linton.’
‘Donald Cook.’ The man shook Jeffrey’s hand, nodding at Sara. He had a loud, booming voice, and didn’t seem to be worried if he woke up any of the patients. ‘Sorry if I kept y’all waiting.’
Jeffrey got straight to the point. ‘How’s my detective doing?’
‘No trouble at all,’ Cook answered. ‘She’s been quiet as a mouse.’
In a different situation, Jeffrey would have made some joke about mistaken identity. ‘Was she burned? Your sheriff said there was some kind of explosion-‘
‘She’s got smoke inhalation, some cuts and scrapes. Doc says she’ll heal
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