Tampered by Ross Pennie Page A

the thought of food being recycled without attention to maintaining its temperature in the proper germ-free range: either very hot or suitably cold. And then she pictured Dr. Wakefield’s freegans diving into Dumpsters at the back of the city’s restaurants, hauling soggy meals out of the garbage. Her hands went cold.
    The room pressed hot and dry on her face. She pulled off her winter things and hung them on the rack. She checked her watch and hoped it wouldn’t be too long before Gloria made her appearance. Circling the room, she exchanged brief hellos with the residents, then studied the artwork on the walls. Half a dozen sentimental Trisha Romance prints glowed with portrayals of impossibly fluffy snow blanketing cutesy villages. Did little girls ever look that perfect at minus twenty? Why didn’t the artist reflect the people of modern Canada? Celtic freckles might be adorable, but so was brown skin kept flawless with generous applications of shea butter.
    On the wall toward the back of the room, she came across a painting that spoke to her instantly. It was an original, not a print, and it showed a soldier striding across a battlefield. Craters pockmarked a landscape littered with burnt-out Jeeps and tanks. A bundle of rags hung limply in the soldier’s arms. The setting sun lit a background of jagged mountains in a spectacle of pinks and violets. She looked closer and saw that the soldier’s dishevelled bundle was actually a child, her eyes round and wide. There was nothing the least bit sentimental about this artist’s work. Its emotional tone reminded her of a Renaissance Pietà, but the vivid colours spoke more of the Hindu Ramayana.
    Natasha tore her eyes from the painting and checked her watch again. Eleven-fifteen and Gloria still hadn’t answered her page. They’d agreed to review the gastro situation and see what support Gloria needed for her infection-control measures. The woman did have her hands full. Maybe she was busy making funeral arrangements. Dr. Wakefield said they hadn’t buried her mother yet.
    At the far side of the common room, next to the tall windows, a scooter tire caught Natasha’s eye. She peeked around the corner into the hallway leading to the elevator and saw Mr. Greenwood and a male companion standing at attention. They were gazing through the windows, watching two other men, from Craig & Lafferty, load a sheet-covered gurney into a black van. The elderly pair, dressed in flannel trousers and navy blazers, had their right hands tipped to their brows in formal salute. Natasha stepped back, hugged her briefcase, and stood still.
    For a minute or more the two veterans didn’t move. Tears spilled down their cheeks, but their salutes didn’t waver. Even after the van driver bolted the vehicle’s rear door and drove out of sight, the two men stood motionless. Finally, Mr. Greenwood began to wobble. He grabbed the handlebar of his scooter and dropped onto the saddle. His companion then terminated his salute with a crisp forward motion, closed his eyes, and briefly bowed his head before lifting his backpack from the floor. He pulled a hanky from a side pocket and wiped his face.
    A few moments passed. Natasha wanted to slip away unnoticed, but decided she’d be less of a distraction if she stayed perfectly still. When Mr. Greenwood turned his scooter toward the common room, he halted immediately. “Oh goodness, Miss Sharma. I didn’t see you standing there.”
    Natasha bit her lip, embarrassed at intruding on their private moment.
    â€œDon’t mind us,” Mr. Greenwood continued. “We were just saying goodbye. To our dear friend Melvin. Gave them trouble right to the end, he did.” He wiped his eyes and blew his nose with a tissue he drew from the basket attached to the handlebars. His light-grey eyes, though bloodshot, brightened. He turned to the gentleman standing beside him. “Have you met my very good