how they’d known to approach him.
“Just give him the Vicodin,” Donaldson rasped.
Reaching beneath her flimsy gown, Lucy fingered one of the toilet-paper wrapped bundles, squeezing it to determine the type of pill inside. Roundish…that meant Ativan. She tried the next bundle, felt the long pill, and produced the Vicodin.
Henry tore open the toilet paper, dumping vikes into his palm.
“Daaaaaamn. You two been busy.”
“You said we’ll have some civilian clothes,” Donaldson said.
“Yeah, man. In the hamper, under all the sheets.”
The Vicodin disappeared into the pocket of Henry’s scrubs, and he pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. He squeezed into them and started pulling linen out of the hamper, stacking it on the floor.
The stench of urine wafted up at Lucy.
“Those are soiled sheets?”
“Pissed in them myself,” Henry said. “We get stopped, no one’s going to search through pissy linen.”
Lucy had never wanted to kill someone so badly before in her entire life, and that was saying something. Also, it was the first time she’d been glad for the incineration of her nasal cavity. She could still smell, just not as potently. Donaldson’s nose, on the other hand, was fully intact. It was the only thing on him that was fully intact.
The orderly pulled out the last of the linen, and then a pair of bib overalls which he handed to Donaldson, and a hideous flower-print dress for Lucy.
“Hurry up,” Henry said.
Lucy struggled onto her feet and took the dress from Henry. She staggered over toward the sink, experiencing a moment’s hesitation at the prospect of stripping in front of these two. Just as she tugged her head through the neck hole of the gown, she glanced back at Henry, half-expecting him to be leering at her from across the room. But he wasn’t even watching. He had turned away completely, and not out of any sense of respect. She knew it was disgust. He was repulsed by her body.
Christ, she wanted to kill him.
But at least he wouldn’t see the other pills, wrapped in toilet paper, which she’d set on the sink.
The dress swallowed her tiny, emaciated frame. She stuffed the packets of pills into the front pocket and limped back over to her partner.
“Need help, D?”
“Little bit.”
Lucy had more control of her three remaining fingers than Donaldson had of his four. As he stepped into the overalls, Lucy tried not to look at the small, plastic tube between his legs, but she couldn’t help herself. Another jolt of compassion. What the hell is wrong with me?
It took her forty-five seconds to get the shoulder straps on Donaldson’s overalls buttoned.
When she’d finished, Henry tapped the laundry cart—a huge canvas bag cloistered in a metal frame on wheels.
“Your carriage awaits.”
The orderly grabbed Lucy under her arms and lifted her over the side, dropping her onto a rope and something else—a broom handle, which had been snapped into two pieces.
Donaldson practically fell on top of her climbing in, and Lucy gummed her arm to stop herself from crying out in pain. Her partner had barely had a chance to settle in when the first piss-stinking linen fell on top of them.
She heard Donaldson gag.
“Is it bad, D?”
More linens rained down on them—soiled sheets and pillowcases.
“There’s goddamn diarrhea on this one.”
It was so awful, Lucy had to fight the urge to laugh.
She huddled next to Donaldson under the weight of thirty pounds of filthy linen as the wheels to the laundry cart squeaked underneath them.
She heard Henry say, “Wassup, my man?” to someone as they rolled along.
Her left leg was crushed under Donaldson’s, the pain brilliant near the site of one of her grafts. She could feel the salty sting of someone else’s urine pressing against the open wound.
But she couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t make a single, goddamn sound if she ever wanted to see the outside again.
The cart banged against what felt like a wall, jolting Donaldson
“Just give him the Vicodin,” Donaldson rasped.
Reaching beneath her flimsy gown, Lucy fingered one of the toilet-paper wrapped bundles, squeezing it to determine the type of pill inside. Roundish…that meant Ativan. She tried the next bundle, felt the long pill, and produced the Vicodin.
Henry tore open the toilet paper, dumping vikes into his palm.
“Daaaaaamn. You two been busy.”
“You said we’ll have some civilian clothes,” Donaldson said.
“Yeah, man. In the hamper, under all the sheets.”
The Vicodin disappeared into the pocket of Henry’s scrubs, and he pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. He squeezed into them and started pulling linen out of the hamper, stacking it on the floor.
The stench of urine wafted up at Lucy.
“Those are soiled sheets?”
“Pissed in them myself,” Henry said. “We get stopped, no one’s going to search through pissy linen.”
Lucy had never wanted to kill someone so badly before in her entire life, and that was saying something. Also, it was the first time she’d been glad for the incineration of her nasal cavity. She could still smell, just not as potently. Donaldson’s nose, on the other hand, was fully intact. It was the only thing on him that was fully intact.
The orderly pulled out the last of the linen, and then a pair of bib overalls which he handed to Donaldson, and a hideous flower-print dress for Lucy.
“Hurry up,” Henry said.
Lucy struggled onto her feet and took the dress from Henry. She staggered over toward the sink, experiencing a moment’s hesitation at the prospect of stripping in front of these two. Just as she tugged her head through the neck hole of the gown, she glanced back at Henry, half-expecting him to be leering at her from across the room. But he wasn’t even watching. He had turned away completely, and not out of any sense of respect. She knew it was disgust. He was repulsed by her body.
Christ, she wanted to kill him.
But at least he wouldn’t see the other pills, wrapped in toilet paper, which she’d set on the sink.
The dress swallowed her tiny, emaciated frame. She stuffed the packets of pills into the front pocket and limped back over to her partner.
“Need help, D?”
“Little bit.”
Lucy had more control of her three remaining fingers than Donaldson had of his four. As he stepped into the overalls, Lucy tried not to look at the small, plastic tube between his legs, but she couldn’t help herself. Another jolt of compassion. What the hell is wrong with me?
It took her forty-five seconds to get the shoulder straps on Donaldson’s overalls buttoned.
When she’d finished, Henry tapped the laundry cart—a huge canvas bag cloistered in a metal frame on wheels.
“Your carriage awaits.”
The orderly grabbed Lucy under her arms and lifted her over the side, dropping her onto a rope and something else—a broom handle, which had been snapped into two pieces.
Donaldson practically fell on top of her climbing in, and Lucy gummed her arm to stop herself from crying out in pain. Her partner had barely had a chance to settle in when the first piss-stinking linen fell on top of them.
She heard Donaldson gag.
“Is it bad, D?”
More linens rained down on them—soiled sheets and pillowcases.
“There’s goddamn diarrhea on this one.”
It was so awful, Lucy had to fight the urge to laugh.
She huddled next to Donaldson under the weight of thirty pounds of filthy linen as the wheels to the laundry cart squeaked underneath them.
She heard Henry say, “Wassup, my man?” to someone as they rolled along.
Her left leg was crushed under Donaldson’s, the pain brilliant near the site of one of her grafts. She could feel the salty sting of someone else’s urine pressing against the open wound.
But she couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t make a single, goddamn sound if she ever wanted to see the outside again.
The cart banged against what felt like a wall, jolting Donaldson
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