If You Wrong Us by Dawn Klehr Page B

room 208 and 213: sure thing.
    As I did it all, with a smile, I took notice of everything: the number of rooms on the floor; where the patient information was kept; the amount of staff on a shift; the comings and goings in the medication room; and the time when nurses started divvying out evening drugs. That last piece of information was of particular interest to me.
    After the accident and my discharge from the Nut Hut, I spent all my free time at the crash site, the hospital, and in my room studying pharmaceuticals. Oh, the things I learned. It’s true it took a lot longer than expected; anything worthwhile usually does.
    Several months later, when I was finally ready, I set out to pocket the medication. It worked surprisingly well. Time consuming but effective. After watching the entire process of gathering, distributing, and disposing the drugs, I found a few chinks in the system and used them in various ways.
    One afternoon, I wanted to test the theory. I walked into a room with a vase of bright tulips as a cover. As the medication was administered to Motorcycle Man, a twenty-something guy who was recovering from a nasty accident, I created a diversion. I bumped into the nurse’s medication cart on my way to set the vase on the windowsill. As I helped steady the cart, I swapped out the real medication with a used vial that I’d refilled with saline. At that point, I had already decided that an injectable would work the best.
    Earlier, I’d found a way to get the used vials before they made it into the Sharps Container. Like I said, it was a slow-going mission, but I eventually had what I needed.
    Motorcycle Man missed his evening dose of pain meds that day. I wasn’t too worried. If the patients complained enough, they could always get extra. He’d be fine.
    If not? Well, what can I say? Sacrifice for the greater good.
    Next came mastering the skill of injecting my chosen drug. That’s where the nerves of steel came into play. I got my hands on the syringes but had no idea how to use them. It only took a few online tutorials from a library computer to remedy that problem.
    I took the first plunge on my pillow, before moving on to Brit’s old stuffed animals, bananas, and a raw chicken breast.
    The final test? A real human being.
    Now I’m sure I could have roped in a volunteer from my ASP group, all in the name of learning, but I couldn’t risk it. I was alone in this and I would have to use my own body as a pincushion.
    As I got closer to the date of my plan to make Travis pay, I spent a few evenings locked in my bedroom playing nurse. The first targets were my arms and legs. It wasn’t that bad, as long as I didn’t look when the needle met my skin. The last of the jabs involved a bit more preparation—and by preparation, I mean swigs of Dad’s brandy—because the last target was my neck. I fainted the first time I did it.
    Needles used to make me queasy. Even the proper name, “hypodermic needle,” was cringe-worthy. The stainless-steel tube was sterile and chilling, and the longer the needle, the worse it was. But I guess all medical equipment can be unnerving. Tools for the body that can be used to repair or destroy never seem quite right. The part of the needle that really made my stomach roll was the tip, beveled in a sharp point. And the way you flick the syringe before drawing out the medication, letting one lonely drop hang from that beveled point. It made my mouth fill.
    Yet despite my aversion to the instrument, I learned to respect it.
    There was something satisfying about the way it felt in my hand as the sharp tip of the needle punctured the skin, sinking into the epidermis. That popping sensation as it penetrated the body.
    It didn’t take me long to become proficient at injecting.
    My plan was in full motion. Even so, the sight of Travis would sway me from time to time. If only temporarily. I’d see him in school, walking down the hall at a pace always a few seconds faster than most