Cited to Death by Meg Perry Page A

"C'mon. You're dead on your feet. There’s plenty of space for you in the guest room."
     
    I got fingerprinted, and we were released. We headed to the parking lot. I turned in the direction of my assigned slot, then remembered that my VW was still in the shop, getting its tires replaced. I groaned. Pete heard me.

    “No worries. We’ll get your car tomorrow. You’re in no shape to drive tonight anyway.”

    I wanted to argue with him but couldn’t dredge up the energy. We were silent on the way to Pete’s townhouse. As soon as we were in the door, the full force of the day hit me, and my knees nearly buckled. Pete grabbed my arms and guided me to the sofa. “Take your shoes off. I need to change the sheets on my bed.”

    “No.” I waved at him weakly. “Don’t do that. Put me in the guest room.”

    “There aren’t any sheets on that bed at all, so it doesn’t matter. Besides, if I’m with you, I’ll notice if you start having trouble with your breathing again. I’m gonna get you a bathrobe, and you can get undressed.”

    He disappeared up the stairs. I started pulling off my shoes and socks. I was anxious to get out of my clothes, and I needed a shower. My body was completely drained, but my brain was wired from the side effects of all the meds I’d had over the course of the day. I felt grungy from the hospital, and I smelled like smoke.

    Pete reappeared with a bathrobe. “Here. You can use the guest bathroom and just leave your clothes in there. I’ll toss them in the washer. Do you want pajamas?”

    “Do you have just a pair of gym shorts?”

    “Yep. Coming right up.” He headed back up the stairs. I left my computer bag on the sofa and followed him, then turned off into the guest bathroom. I dropped my clothes on the toilet lid and put on the robe, then headed for the master bedroom.

    Pete was putting the comforter back on the bed. “I put a pair of shorts in there.” He indicated the master bath with his head. “There are clean towels in there and a new toothbrush. Help yourself to shampoo or whatever else you need.”

    I nodded. I was too tired to form words. The shower had a seat molded into its shape; I turned on the water and sat down. Once I was done and dry, I put on the shorts and the robe, brushed my teeth, and headed for the kitchen.

    Pete was starting the washing machine. “Feel better?”

    “Cleaner, anyway.”

    “Well, that’s a start. Want something to eat?”

    I didn’t feel hungry, but I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “I guess I’d better. But not much.”

    “How about tomato soup? Some crackers?”

    “Actually, that sounds great.” And it did. I sat down at the little dining table and waited.

    We ate. I needed to check my peak flow again, but realized the flow meter had been in the apartment. I wasn’t going to do anything about that tonight; I’d get it replaced in the morning. I rubbed my face. I was whipped, but the worst side effect of all the drugs dumped into me over the course of the day was a jittery exhaustion that made sleep impossible. So there wasn’t any point in going to bed. Pete arranged a mass of pillows on the sofa, and I propped myself up with my laptop and a glass of water. Pete went out briefly to get my prescriptions filled, then settled on the love seat to grade papers.

    Pete was coming down off the adrenaline of the day and was soon napping. I leaned back and closed my eyes, but sleep still wasn’t coming. I sighed and decided to take a crack at rearranging the translated Welsh article. I wasn’t going to be able to read anything tonight, but maybe I could unscramble some of it.

    I pulled the document out of Dropbox and paged through it. The article was arranged in sections, similar to the research articles I was used to seeing – abstract, introduction, review of literature, hypothesis, methodology, statistical analysis, results, discussion. I decided to start with the methodology. That would be the most interesting