Earth Thirst by Mark Teppo Page B

through his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and shred them.
    The video camera hangs crookedly on its post, its eye no longer watchful.
    I swipe the ID card on the nearby door and slip into the main building.
    Inside, it's all puce walls and off-white trim. Prints of very restful landscapes are arranged neatly along the walls. Someone left the mood music on—Chopin, from the sounds of it—though it's so quiet most wouldn't know they were actually humming along with it. Got to keep the natives placid.
    I'm behind the scenes at the psychiatric hospital, and there aren't any cameras watching the watchers. The first floor is most likely administration, with the upper floors and basement given over to the rooms for the residents and rooms filled with therapeutic opportunities, respectively. A pair of orderlies is hanging out in a break room not far from the staff kitchen, and as they're staring tiredly at a video feed from a sports channel, it's not too hard to slip past them. I ponder putting the pair of slightly less bored guards in the security cage to sleep, but I suspect the current administration at Eden Park isn't keen on putting real names on the room roster.
    I'm going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

THIRTEEN
    M ere is in a corner room on the second floor. She's asleep when I peek in, but she's thrown her sheet off and even though she's curled up and her head is turned away from the observation peephole in the door, I recognize her shape.
    There are a lot of things I can't forget. Sometimes I wish I could. Though, times like this, I relish having the memories I do. Too many are gone—good and bad.
    The lock on the door is solid, and I could probably rip the door off its hinges, but that'll be noisy. I go looking for someone with keys instead—like the two guards in the security cage on the first floor.
    When I get back downstairs, one is not there. When he returns a few minutes later, he gawks at his unconscious buddy for a second before joining him. While I've been waiting, I've had time to collect the set of master keys and read over the resident roster. It's all first names and last initial only, and I find “Mere V” as well as “Thaddeus M.”
    Sally will be pleased.
    The master key makes it easy to open room 216 quietly, and I consider slinging Mere over my shoulder and making a run for it. But I don't know what the drugs have done to her; if she wakes up and freaks out, then I'm carrying the equivalent of a sack full of cats. I opt for stealth, though it is going to take more time. I sit and bounce on the edge of her uncomfortable bed until she stirs. Her breathing changes around the third bounce and her eyelids start to flutter. She turns, notices my presence, and opens one eye enough to look up at me. She burrows into her pillow, pulling it over her already messy and limp hair. She mumbles something unintelligible.
    “I'm not a dream,” I say.
    “You have to be,” she slurs. “Otherwise the rest is true too.” I stroke her hair. Other than when I held her out over the railing on the boat, it's the first time I've touched her when she's been aware of my presence. She whimpers slightly, and when she speaks, her voice is muffled by the pillow. “I can't feel anything,” she whispers.
    “It's the drugs,” I tell her.
    “That's what my last boyfriend said.” She giggles and I'm not happy to hear the sound. It's unhinged, disconnected, and we're back to a sack of cats. She's got quite a cocktail screwing with her head. My hands tighten on the edge of her bed, my nails tearing through the sheet and slick cover of the mattress.
    “Let's go somewhere else,” I try. “How about a trip to the spa? We'll have native children rub your feet.”
    “Don't,” she says. She flips over, keeping the pillow over her face. “You're making it worse.”
    I glance toward the door, mentally considering how long I've been sitting here. “I need you to come back,” I say. “I need you to walk out of