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I follow him.

An hour later, I am still sitting at a table in the patient cafeteria, a paper cup of black coffee in front of me. I don’t remember eating a brownie, but the evidence is all over me in the form of crumbs and frosting. I try to dust myself off, but the chocolate smears. I feel more cognizant, but my limbs are heavy. I drink the bitter coffee, shamefaced. I don’t know what happened out there, but I completely froze. It was embarrassing. I feel like an idiot. Having a job like this is all about managing crisis situations.Good freaking job, Iris.

The coffee scalds my tongue, and I don’t care. I sip it down to the dregs and take a look around. I feel better, less in my head. Apron guy comes around with the coffeepot, and I hold my hand over the cup, shaking my head.

“I’m much better. Thank you, though, for everything. My name is Iris, by the way.” I sound as disjointed as I feel.

“They call me Chef.” He’s in his fifties, empty face. Meager facial hair grows in reddish-blond patches around his jaw.

“It’s great to meet you, Chef. Thanks for the coffee…and the brownies.”

I need to pee, but I don’t trust myself to stand up yet.

“Crede told me to tell you that he has a quick meeting with Dr. Grayson and will be by shortly to collect you.”

“Great, I’ll be ready.” I force a smile. Chef studies my face, the rag he’s been cleaning the tables with hanging limply in his hand. I think he’s going to say something else, but he turns and walks away.

I look around. The patient cafeteria is empty aside from Chef and a small dark-haired woman who is helping him wipe down tables. I’m about to ask for a rag so I can help when Crede appears in the doorway, scanning the room like he’s already annoyed. When his eyes land on me, he sighs, relieved. He crosses the room, weaving between tables. I stand up to meet him, but faster than I should, and the fishbowl wobbles like Jell-O. I sway on my feet, grabbing the back of my chair to steady myself. I’m sweating, but I feel chilled.

“Whoa! Are you okay? Easy there, slugger…”

Crede is suddenly right there, gripping my upper arm to steady me.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “I stood up too fast.”

His frown says that he doesn’t believe me. Chef comes out of the kitchen with a bottle of water and hands it to me.

“Thank you,” I say, and then I add, “for everything.” Chef’s face remains flat as he nods at me.He disappears back into the kitchen. Crede gives me a hard side-eye.

“Making friends, I see…”

“He was really nice.”

Crede looks at me as though searching for the joke, then shakes his head. I consider facial aggressions annoying. Passive-aggressive.

“I’m behind schedule.” Abruptly, he turns away and walks, expecting me to follow. I roll my eyes at his back and feel immediately childish. I run to catch up.

“Who was that man?”

“A patient,” Crede says flatly. I frown, undeterred. My thoughts are running so fast I can’t keep up. I try again.

“What was his name?” I know Crede mentioned it, but the memory feels hazy.

Our shoes make squeaking noises on the flooreee ee eee ee.

Crede looks annoyed but he says, “Otto Knott. Metastatic cancer. Seventy…we can check his blood type if you like…”

It’s still too early in the relationship to tell if Crede is uncaring or efficient.

“Where will they keep his body?”

“We have a morgue.”

Yikes.

“Will his family come to get the…body?”

“He only has one brother who is older than him and lives in Florida. He’s never been up to visit as long as I’ve worked here. Those types normally ask us to bury them here.” When he sees my face, he rolls his eyes.