as the hideous hospital gowns.
“What took you so long?” he whispered.
“That’s a good one, fat ass,” she said.
“You ready?”
“Hell, yes.”
Lucy had been through the more recent surgery—just nine days ago—and as bad a shape as they both were in, the skin grafts had left her far weaker.
She took three agonizing steps and then collapsed into the wheelchair, every last nerve she still owned screaming out in a chorus of blinding, white-hot pain that was so intense, she leaned over the armrest and vomited on the floor.
“Lovely,” Donaldson said and started to push.
“How we doing on time?” Lucy asked, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her gown.
“About a minute behind, thanks to you.”
“But he’ll wait…right?”
“What we’re paying this asshole, he better.”
The progress down the corridor was slow, and after ten feet, slower, Donaldson panting, and Lucy feeling drips of cold sweat raining down off the end of his prosthetic chin implant onto her hairless skull.
“You gonna make it, D?”
“Go to hell.”
The clock over the nurses’ station read 7:15 P.M. , and Donaldson nodded to the young nurse writing in her charts, wrapping up the tail end of second shift.
“Evening,” he rasped.
She ignored him.
Donaldson pushed the wheelchair down the hallway and into the rec room. As usual, it was mostly full after dinner. Various formerly dangerous psychopaths with various physical health problems huddled under an old TV that never played anything stronger than PG-rated comedies. A few glanced at Lucy as she rolled in. One, a paraplegic named Briggs, who’d killed his caregiver for making him green beans instead of his preferred creamed corn, flicked out his tongue at Lucy like a serpent. She would have loved to have finished the job God had begun and fully paralyzed the prick, but there were more pressing things on her mind at the moment.
They passed the empty table with the painted-on checkerboard. The checkers were still absent, having been confiscated by the staff a month prior, following a fatal bludgeoning over a disputed move. Why couldn’t habitually violent and insane criminals just play nice?
They headed toward the door at the back of the room, Lucy watching the large, mean orderly named Gary out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t paying attention to them, engrossed instead in an issue of US Weekly .
Donaldson wheezed heavily as they approached the door. Felt like cold, salty drizzle pattering on the top of Lucy’s bald head, and though it disgusted her, she didn’t say anything. In truth, she felt sorry for him.
Which was odd. Lucy hadn’t thought she was capable of pity.
She leaned forward, struggling to push in the door handle.
“How’s the coast, D?”
“All clear.”
As rehearsed, Lucy said loudly, “I really have to pee.”
“Seriously? You take forever.”
“Screw you then. I’ll do it myself.”
Donaldson grunted a “whatever” as he pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom.
Their angel, a dour-looking Cuban named Henry, stood waiting behind a laundry cart.
Henry quickly shoved a screwdriver in the door jamb to stop it from opening.
“What took you so long?” he said.
Lucy flashed a smile—one that had once been inviting, but was now monstrous. “We came as fast as we could.”
“Yeah, well, the price just went up.”
“What are you talking about?” Donaldson rasped. “We paid you everything we have.”
“I’m not talking about money.”
Lucy glanced back at Donaldson.
“I know you guys have been hoarding meds. I’ll take your Vicodin.”
Lucy felt a sudden rush of panic. “Henry, no.”
“I got no sympathy for you, bitch. How many poor bastards did you torture to death? The both of you are scum. Only reason I’m helping in the first place is to take care of my mother.”
Lucy knew Henry was full of shit. Ward gossip spoke of his chronic gambling problem, owing big money to a Chicago hood named Dovolanni . That’s
“What took you so long?” he whispered.
“That’s a good one, fat ass,” she said.
“You ready?”
“Hell, yes.”
Lucy had been through the more recent surgery—just nine days ago—and as bad a shape as they both were in, the skin grafts had left her far weaker.
She took three agonizing steps and then collapsed into the wheelchair, every last nerve she still owned screaming out in a chorus of blinding, white-hot pain that was so intense, she leaned over the armrest and vomited on the floor.
“Lovely,” Donaldson said and started to push.
“How we doing on time?” Lucy asked, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her gown.
“About a minute behind, thanks to you.”
“But he’ll wait…right?”
“What we’re paying this asshole, he better.”
The progress down the corridor was slow, and after ten feet, slower, Donaldson panting, and Lucy feeling drips of cold sweat raining down off the end of his prosthetic chin implant onto her hairless skull.
“You gonna make it, D?”
“Go to hell.”
The clock over the nurses’ station read 7:15 P.M. , and Donaldson nodded to the young nurse writing in her charts, wrapping up the tail end of second shift.
“Evening,” he rasped.
She ignored him.
Donaldson pushed the wheelchair down the hallway and into the rec room. As usual, it was mostly full after dinner. Various formerly dangerous psychopaths with various physical health problems huddled under an old TV that never played anything stronger than PG-rated comedies. A few glanced at Lucy as she rolled in. One, a paraplegic named Briggs, who’d killed his caregiver for making him green beans instead of his preferred creamed corn, flicked out his tongue at Lucy like a serpent. She would have loved to have finished the job God had begun and fully paralyzed the prick, but there were more pressing things on her mind at the moment.
They passed the empty table with the painted-on checkerboard. The checkers were still absent, having been confiscated by the staff a month prior, following a fatal bludgeoning over a disputed move. Why couldn’t habitually violent and insane criminals just play nice?
They headed toward the door at the back of the room, Lucy watching the large, mean orderly named Gary out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t paying attention to them, engrossed instead in an issue of US Weekly .
Donaldson wheezed heavily as they approached the door. Felt like cold, salty drizzle pattering on the top of Lucy’s bald head, and though it disgusted her, she didn’t say anything. In truth, she felt sorry for him.
Which was odd. Lucy hadn’t thought she was capable of pity.
She leaned forward, struggling to push in the door handle.
“How’s the coast, D?”
“All clear.”
As rehearsed, Lucy said loudly, “I really have to pee.”
“Seriously? You take forever.”
“Screw you then. I’ll do it myself.”
Donaldson grunted a “whatever” as he pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom.
Their angel, a dour-looking Cuban named Henry, stood waiting behind a laundry cart.
Henry quickly shoved a screwdriver in the door jamb to stop it from opening.
“What took you so long?” he said.
Lucy flashed a smile—one that had once been inviting, but was now monstrous. “We came as fast as we could.”
“Yeah, well, the price just went up.”
“What are you talking about?” Donaldson rasped. “We paid you everything we have.”
“I’m not talking about money.”
Lucy glanced back at Donaldson.
“I know you guys have been hoarding meds. I’ll take your Vicodin.”
Lucy felt a sudden rush of panic. “Henry, no.”
“I got no sympathy for you, bitch. How many poor bastards did you torture to death? The both of you are scum. Only reason I’m helping in the first place is to take care of my mother.”
Lucy knew Henry was full of shit. Ward gossip spoke of his chronic gambling problem, owing big money to a Chicago hood named Dovolanni . That’s
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