Two

Angie walked back into the laundry room and dumped the dirty sheet into one of several large baskets. She put her hands on the base of her spine, then bent backward until a sore spot popped and felt relief. Around her, the washers rumbled and moaned.

“Troubles at home?” asked Freeda from behind the folding table. Freeda was chewing gum. She blew a little bubble and smiled.

Angie straightened and shrugged. She walked over to the table and grabbed a sheet to fold. “No new ones, if that's what you mean. Maylee just really chafes at having a babysitter.”

“Well...” Freeda started. She looked at Angie, then back down at the sheets. Angie knew the look Freeda had just given her. It was Freeda's cautious look, the look she had when she was choosing her words carefully. “She is fourteen.”

“Oh god.” Angie shook her head, but smiled while she did it. “Not you too.”

Freeda laughed. “I know, I know. They're your babies. And you've had Maylee since you were practically a baby yourself. But you have to start letting go a little.”

Angie nodded and finished the sheet she was folding. She felt bad for being cold to Maylee. Call home, her mind nagged at her. Tell her you're sorry. “I know you're right, but...” She trailed off, putting the folded sheet on the stack Freeda had made. “Well, I don't know but what, just but something.”

“I see,” said Freeda, nodding as she finished the last sheet. She put it on the pile and raised an eyebrow at Angie. “but as in butt out.”

Angie laughed. “No, no. Not like that.” She helped Freeda straighten the stack, then they both headed for the door. Angie snapped off the light as they both left.

They walked down the hall quietly for a moment. “Speaking of butts,” Angie said, “Sam Shuab...”

“Oh god, that prick.” Freeda laughed. “You'd think Shuab Auto Sales was worth billions, the way he acts. What's he want?”

“A doctor,” said Angie. “He's demanding one come talk to him.”

They turned a corner and headed up a hallway toward the break room. Freeda frowned. “Mr. Paulson's refusing the surgery again?”

“Yep.” Angie nodded, then thought for a moment. “Who's the doctor on duty, anyway?”

“Doctor Gordon.”

“Oh great. Well, at least he and Sam should hit it off.”

Freeda laughed. “I swear, if that little jackass was half the doctor he thought he was, he wouldn't have the late shift on a Thursday night.”

Angie nodded. “This is true. He probably wouldn't even have this shift if he didn't have so many buddies on the board of directors.”

They both turned another corner and almost collided with Nurse Ruby Meyer. Ruby had been headed the other direction and looked very annoyed at having been stopped. She was a tight-looking woman with a stern face and her hair pulled back taut.

“Where are you two going?” she said.

“Break room,” said Angie as pleasantly as she could. Ruby made her nervous, but she refused to show it. “We're both pulling a double tonight, so I thought we'd take the chance to sit for a few minutes.”

Ruby frowned for a tiny moment, then pushed past them. “Not yet, girls,” she said as she walked up the hall. “I'll need everyone we can spare in ER. We've got a gunshot victim coming in. Someone who tried to rob Ed's.”

Then she was gone around the corner. Angie and Freeda listened to the receding pat of Ruby's sneakers. Even with those sneakers, Angie could usually hear Ruby coming. Something was distracting her tonight. Something was wrong.

When Ruby was out of both sight and sound, Freeda turned to Angie. “What if we just don't show?”     

Angie shook her head. “You know Ruby. That would be a bad idea.” Then Angie felt a dread come over her. A feeling of something awful creeping up. Call home, she thought. No, no time. Have to work.  “A very bad idea.”

* * *

“I told you it was a bad idea,” said Parker Welch as he whipped his groaning pickup into the parking lot of Lakewood Memorial. He ignored a speed bump and his muffler clattered in protest. His hunting cap began sliding off his long, unkempt hair and he tossed it off impatiently.

“The guy looked hurt, Park,” said Morton Buck from the passenger seat. Park had known Moe for most of his thirty-five years, and Moe was constantly saying things like that. Stupidly nice things.

Moe rocked from side to side in rhythm with the truck. His teeth were clenched and he had one hand clamped over his left arm. Blood seeped from between his fingers.

“Fuck him,” said Park. The truck's headlights bounced as he swung around, looking for a place to park. He found a spot near the emergency entrance and aimed for it. It was a handicapped spot, but Park ignored that. He was in a hurry. “That's what I said, and it's what you should have said too.”

“Now, Park,” said Moe, leaning to one side as the truck banked hard into the spot and stopped. “You can't ignore a fellow who's hurt.”

Park let the engine run and stared across the front of the truck. He wondered what the hell had happened. The sun was going down on what was supposed to have been Parker's dying day. A nice, long-overdue hunting session with Moe, then home again to blow off the back of his head with a shotgun. Maybe he'd even feel the breeze against the back of his eyeballs before he winked out.

He hadn't told Moe, of course. Moe would have tried to stop him, showing the same stupid helpfulness that had gotten him bit.

“Well, he wasn't hurt, was he?” said Park, turning to him. “He was some crazy fucking asshole who bit you. Fucker was probably on meth or something.”

He jerked the engine off and the truck shuddered in complaint. He realized he was still wearing his hunting gloves and he pulled them off, tossing them into a camouflage heap at Moe's feet. “Let's get inside.”