sticks on the door tracks. I persuade it with a shove.
“I suspect I’ll manage.”
From there I go to the women’s locker room, change out of my uniform, and toss it down the hatch that I know leads to the laundry. Another fresh one will be waiting for me next shift. With my bag slung over one shoulder, I take the elevator up to the tenth floor, where the medical facilities are located.
Biannual physical. Company protocol. No checkup, no job, no paycheck, ergo: no college.
Dr. Scott is waiting. We go through the routine I’ve performed three times before today: blood pressure, EKG, weight. He takes a vial of blood and then he’s back with another needle. It’s not the first time.
“It’s that time of the year again,” he says. “Company orders.”
He rolls up my sleeve until my upper arm is bare, then swabs an area the size of a quarter. The tip goes in like I’m butter.
“Hold still,” Dr. Scott says by rote, even though I’m a statue.
The pain is a spider unfolding impossibly long legs.
“What the hell?” It takes all I’ve got not to jerk away. “What is that stuff? Liquid fire?”
“Flu shot. Keep still. Nearly done.” He eases the needle out. “All done. You know the routine.”
I do. Rest for half an hour to make sure there’s no reaction. The fire blazes long after he drops the needle in the hazardous-waste trash.
“Seriously, what was that?”
“Flu shot,” he repeats, like they’ve made him practice the words a thousand times. “Everyone has to have one. You can go now.”
DATE: NOW
My breath comes in desperate bursts. The rope grinds into one of my tracheal valleys, held snug there in the shallow V. Pounding in my chest blocks out all ambient noise.
“Where’s Lisa?” I try to say.
The rope jerks and my mouth opens in an airless gasp.
“ I’m asking the questions.”
The accent isn’t American or British, but the wind could be distorting the softness of the vowels, the crispness of the consonants.
My fingers work the rope, searching for weakness, a gap I can exploit the way the rope holder exploited mine. I find it at the back and discover he’s looped it around my neck without bothering to twist, which means there’s space enough for two fingers. Cracking my head into his face isn’t an option, because his mouth is shoved up against my ear.
Rough fibers grate my fingers as I ease them along the path. They burn new grooves into my whorls and loops. No helping hand comes from the weather; the wind dumps dust in my eyes before whisking away the irrigating tears.
“Why are you alive?”
“There are still people alive.”
He shakes his head against me. “Not without a good reason. What are you? Somebody important? You’re just a woman.”
“I’m nobody.”
“Liar.”
He might have a weapon. If he has rope, then chances are better than good that he does. But I do, too. There’s the paring knife in my pocket, nestled between the seams. One of us has to be faster, and from where I’m standing—with a rope around my neck—that had better be me.
I close my eyes, try to blink away the grit. Maybe it’s my imagination but the wind seems less determined now, like it’s running out of breath, too tired to go on.
“Speak up,” he says.
“Screw. You. Asshole.”
I jerk my left arm up, ram my elbow into his gut. He jumps back in time to avoid most of the damage, but gives me an advantage in doing so: his fingers have released enough of the rope for me to twist around, snatch up the slack, and yank it from his hands.
It’s too dark to see the rope burn through his skin, but his muffled yelps deliver the message.
“Lunatic,” he says when he recovers. He drags me by the arm back up the stairs into the house I just left. “Talk. But not too loud.”
“Where’s Lisa?”
“Dead.”
My heart is an elevator with broken cables crashing through the floors all the way to my feet. I snap. I can’t help it. My fist crashes through something in the
“I suspect I’ll manage.”
From there I go to the women’s locker room, change out of my uniform, and toss it down the hatch that I know leads to the laundry. Another fresh one will be waiting for me next shift. With my bag slung over one shoulder, I take the elevator up to the tenth floor, where the medical facilities are located.
Biannual physical. Company protocol. No checkup, no job, no paycheck, ergo: no college.
Dr. Scott is waiting. We go through the routine I’ve performed three times before today: blood pressure, EKG, weight. He takes a vial of blood and then he’s back with another needle. It’s not the first time.
“It’s that time of the year again,” he says. “Company orders.”
He rolls up my sleeve until my upper arm is bare, then swabs an area the size of a quarter. The tip goes in like I’m butter.
“Hold still,” Dr. Scott says by rote, even though I’m a statue.
The pain is a spider unfolding impossibly long legs.
“What the hell?” It takes all I’ve got not to jerk away. “What is that stuff? Liquid fire?”
“Flu shot. Keep still. Nearly done.” He eases the needle out. “All done. You know the routine.”
I do. Rest for half an hour to make sure there’s no reaction. The fire blazes long after he drops the needle in the hazardous-waste trash.
“Seriously, what was that?”
“Flu shot,” he repeats, like they’ve made him practice the words a thousand times. “Everyone has to have one. You can go now.”
DATE: NOW
My breath comes in desperate bursts. The rope grinds into one of my tracheal valleys, held snug there in the shallow V. Pounding in my chest blocks out all ambient noise.
“Where’s Lisa?” I try to say.
The rope jerks and my mouth opens in an airless gasp.
“ I’m asking the questions.”
The accent isn’t American or British, but the wind could be distorting the softness of the vowels, the crispness of the consonants.
My fingers work the rope, searching for weakness, a gap I can exploit the way the rope holder exploited mine. I find it at the back and discover he’s looped it around my neck without bothering to twist, which means there’s space enough for two fingers. Cracking my head into his face isn’t an option, because his mouth is shoved up against my ear.
Rough fibers grate my fingers as I ease them along the path. They burn new grooves into my whorls and loops. No helping hand comes from the weather; the wind dumps dust in my eyes before whisking away the irrigating tears.
“Why are you alive?”
“There are still people alive.”
He shakes his head against me. “Not without a good reason. What are you? Somebody important? You’re just a woman.”
“I’m nobody.”
“Liar.”
He might have a weapon. If he has rope, then chances are better than good that he does. But I do, too. There’s the paring knife in my pocket, nestled between the seams. One of us has to be faster, and from where I’m standing—with a rope around my neck—that had better be me.
I close my eyes, try to blink away the grit. Maybe it’s my imagination but the wind seems less determined now, like it’s running out of breath, too tired to go on.
“Speak up,” he says.
“Screw. You. Asshole.”
I jerk my left arm up, ram my elbow into his gut. He jumps back in time to avoid most of the damage, but gives me an advantage in doing so: his fingers have released enough of the rope for me to twist around, snatch up the slack, and yank it from his hands.
It’s too dark to see the rope burn through his skin, but his muffled yelps deliver the message.
“Lunatic,” he says when he recovers. He drags me by the arm back up the stairs into the house I just left. “Talk. But not too loud.”
“Where’s Lisa?”
“Dead.”
My heart is an elevator with broken cables crashing through the floors all the way to my feet. I snap. I can’t help it. My fist crashes through something in the
Similar Books
