One

Angela Land strode down a hallway in Lakewood Memorial Hospital. She moved with purpose through the florescent light and disinfectant smell. The small rural hospital had a few doctors, a few nurses and several nurse's aides. Angie was third on that list.

Her cell phone rang. She didn't stop or even slow down, sliding the phone from her smock and flipping her hair to one side.

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Mom?”

Angie sighed. “What is it, Maylee? I'm at work.”

“Brooke is being a bitch.”

“She's the babysitter. Just do what she says.”

Angie arrived at a large, dimly-lit laundry room. Several dryers were rumbling like hungry monsters. Her friend Freeda - also an aide - was folding sheets. Angie nodded and Freeda handed her one, grinning. Angie smiled and turned to leave. “And don't say bitch.”

“Brooke said bitch,” said Maylee.

Angie exhaled and walked back down the hall, holding the sheet. “Brooke's sixteen.” The same age Angie had been when Maylee was born.

“I'm fourteen.”

“Well, in two years you can start saying bitch. We'll have a party.”

“Seriously?”

“No.”

Maylee let out an exasperated groan. When Angie was in an honest mood, she knew those groans sounded just like her. “Don't you think fourteen is a little old for a babysitter?”

Angie counted the room numbers as they went by. 409, 410, 411 ... “Your brother's only twelve.”

“Twelve's a little old, too.”

“Look, Maylee, I just feel better if someone's there.”

“I'm here, Mom. Don't you think I can handle it?”

“No one can handle everything.”

“But you can?”

“I have to, Maylee, whether I want to or not. Now I have to go. Goodbye.”

“Mom...” Maylee started, but Angie was already snapping the phone shut. She dropped it back into her pocket and reached room 425. Mr. Paulson.

“I'm back,” she announced as she strode into the room and pushed the door shut with her foot. Old Mr. Paulson sat up in bed, a sheet crumpled around his ankles. The sheet was spattered with the remnants of his dinner.

“About goddamned time,” he said. He spoke like he was spitting out something nasty. “I was freezing my nuts off.”

Mr. Paulson's daughter sat in a chair next to his bed. Angie knew her to be 45, but her eyes looked older. Her name was Kristen.

“Now, Dad,” she said, shaking her head. “It was you who dumped your food on the sheets.”

“It tasted like half-digested turds,” said Mr. Paulson. He glared at Kristen, then looked back to Angie. “How could you feed that to an old man? Especially a dying one?”

Angie smiled and pulled the dirty sheet from the bed. “Now, Mr. Paulson, I don't think you're dying.”

Mr. Paulson snorted. “Well, you don't think much, then. I might look like the picture of health to a retard like you, but I ain't.” He twisted around to slap the oxygen tank next to his bed. A tube ran from the tank to under his nose. “I've dragged one of these fuckers around for ten years.”

Kristen exhaled. “Well, if you hadn't smoked for all those years...”

“Oh, monkey-clit.” Mr. Paulson folded his arms and sat back. “Now you've got my daughter bitching at me.”

Kristen smiled and shook her head. Angie dropped the dirty sheet and took the clean one in both hands. Kristen stood and held out her arms, offering to take the sheet. Angie shook her head and started unfolding.

Kristen sat. “Well, Dad, I just want to have you around as long as possible.”

Wow, thought Angie, hell of a thing to wish on yourself. She felt a little guilty for that, and turned her attention to the equipment sitting around the bed. If anything was obviously wrong, she'd have to report it to Nurse Ruby.

Then a scream came from somewhere down the hall. It was a woman, screaming loud and long. It sent a cold spike down Angie's back. All three of them turned to look at the door.

It swung open slowly.

A large man lumbered in. It was Sam Shuab, Kristen's husband. He was carrying paper cups of coffee.

“Man, some old chick's really squalling two rooms down,” he said.

And then Angie remembered. “Oh, that's just Mrs. Reddens. She always yells when she has blood drawn.” Angie had known that. Everyone on staff knew that. So why had it scared her? Something felt wrong tonight. Like something awful was sneaking up on her. She hadn't said anything to Maylee, but that was the main reason she'd insisted on a babysitter tonight. Someone else there. To keep watch. But for what?

“Poor old Mrs. Reddens,” said Kristen.

Mr. Paulson snorted. “Poor old me, for having to listen to her. Moldy old twat's always shrieking at bingo, too. Enough goddamned noise to wake a corpse.”  

“I doubt she'd wake a corpse,” said Kristen.

“Well, I'll know soon enough, first hand. Once the quacks here go cracking my chest open.” He waved his arms to indicate the whole hospital.

“It's just for a pacemaker,” said Angie. She stooped to pick up the dirty sheet. “It'll help with those chest pains.”

“I'm sorry, miss,” said Sam, handing Kristen a cup and sitting. “Are you a doctor?”

Angie's face flashed hot. “No.”

“No, you're a hospital maid is what you are.” He adjusted the glasses on his thick head. “Now go get us a damned doctor so we can talk sense to them.”

“Sam,” said Kristen sharply, looking at him.

“What?” said Sam. “He doesn't want the surgery. It's his call.”

Kristen's face went dark. Angie smirked to herself. You've done it now, asshole.

“And quit fidgeting with your glasses,” Kristen continued.

“I hate these stupid things,” said Sam, taking them off and rubbing his eyes.

Angie bunched up the dirty sheet and did her best to smile. “Well, I'll go check on the doctor.”

Sam and Mr. Paulson grunted something. Kristen smiled. Angie turned and left.

As soon as she was back in the hallway, her cell phone rang. She sighed, fished the phone out and answered.

“Mom?” came her son's voice.

“Dalton? What is it?”

“Maylee's not doing what Brooke says.”

“Dalton, I don't have time...”

“And she keeps saying bitch.”

* * *

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” said Maylee, skipping around the living room. She liked the way her hair, dyed the most screw-you black she could find, bounced with each step. How her mom hated that hair.

“I'm serious, Maylee,” said Brooke, standing across the room with her arms folded. Brooke's hair was conservative and perfect. I'm older, her hair said. It pissed Maylee off. “Knock it off right now,” said Brooke.

Maylee stopped skipping and crossed her arms, mocking Brooke. “But I don't know any better. I'm just a little baby.”

“Well, you're certainly acting like a little baby.”

Maylee rolled her eyes. “Oh, thank you, zinger queen. Your mom teach you that one?”

Brooke groaned and ran her hands through her hair. Maylee loved seeing that perfect hair falling out of place. “Why are you doing this, Maylee? Why can't we all just hang out until your mom comes home?”

“Because I don't need a babysitter, that's why!” Maylee turned and stomped toward her bedroom. She stopped when she heard Dalton's voice:

“And she keeps saying bitch.”

She growled deep in her throat and pounded to the kitchen. She found Dalton at the table, phone to his ear.

Maylee sighed. “Are you telling on me, crotch-nostrils?”

Dalton grinned. “And now she's insulting me,” he said into the phone.

Maylee snatched the phone and put it to her ear. “Mom, please. Why can't you just trust me?”

“You're just too young to be left alone all night,” said Mom.

“But I know what I'm doing! I know better than to get knocked up like you did!”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Maylee knew she'd gone too far. She felt as though she'd hit her mom across the face. She wanted desperately to snatch the words back, but it was too late.

Mom was quiet for what seemed like minutes. Maylee finally spoke, her throat dry and cracking. “Mom...”

“Put Brooke on, please.”

Brooke was already there, taking the phone from Maylee. “Ms. Land? I'm sorry.” She nodded at whatever Mom was saying and straightened her hair. “Things really aren't as out of control as they sound.”

Maylee bit the tip of her thumb and leaned back against the counter. Dalton stuck his tongue out at her. She kicked at him.

“Right,” said Brooke into the phone. “No problem. See you later on. Bye.”

“Wait,” said Maylee, pushing herself up and reaching for the phone. But Brooke was hanging up and Maylee was too late. Again.

“I wanted to tell her I was sorry,” said Maylee.

“Well, you'll get to talk to her later. I'll let you use my new cell phone.”

Maylee reached for the phone. "No. Let me do it."

"Dammit, Maylee," Brooke snapped. "Back off or I'll tell your mom what you've been doing with your friend Stacy!"

Maylee looked at Brooke, mouth open. Dalton looked from Brooke to Maylee, then back to Brooke. He looked very amused. After a few seconds, Maylee gave Brooke a very dark look and sat back against the counter. "I just want to tell her I'm sorry," she said, almost a whisper.

Brooke sighed and drummed her fingers on the wall. Maylee leaned back and pouted. Dalton shifted uncomfortably.

Brooke looked around at the two of them and smoothed out her hair. “Okay.” She picked up the phone. “I know I told your mom we might go out, but let's just order in. What do you two want on your pizza?”