Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Speaking of pay, who did you pay to get such an easy job?”
“I didn’t have to,” he says with a shrug. “I guess I’m just better with patients than you are.”
The scarecrow in the chair pipes up. “Can you go any faster?” So, Mrs. Peterson can speak, after all. “I don’t have that much time left on earth, you know?” I mean, she’s not wrong.
Another voice catches my attention before I can laugh at the way Preston scowls. “Hey, Easton. What are you doing?”
Fucking Joel. My blood pressure shouldn’t be this high. “Just walking Mrs. Peterson to her friend’s room.”
“I don’t think we need two people to push one wheelchair.” He thrusts a pitcher my way, then waves a dismissive hand. “Fill that with ice water, then refill the cups in the patients’ rooms.” By the time he’s finished, he’s already halfway down the hall.
The only thing that stops me from giving him a sarcastic salute is knowing Dad will hear about it and probably double the amount of time I have to spend doing this in retaliation. “Whatever I can do to help,” I grit out through my clenched teeth.
My brother snickers, then continues down the hall, faster this time. One of the nurses behind the desk notices. “And you, Preston, there’s plenty more for you to do. We don’t need you hanging out with the patients all day.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” Mrs. Peterson grumbles, and now I have to walk away before I burst out laughing. At least I know I’m not the only one in fucking misery right now. It’s probably wrong, but knowing my brother is getting his ass chewed, too, makes this feel easier to deal with by the time I have the pitcher filled and start going from room to room.
I’m pretty sure there’s a rule around here that all the elderly patients have to watch the same TV shows, all of them in black and white, all of them turned up so loud I have to shout to be heard.
One of the patient’s, a middle-aged man who’s been watching golf, surprises me by clamping a hand on my wrist before I can turn away from his bedside. “Do you need something?” I ask before his grip tightens with obvious urgency. “What can I do?”
“I… I need…” He gives me a pleading, wide-eyed look.
Before a fountain of puke erupts from his mouth. And lucky me, being held in place so I can’t escape the splash. The pitcher falls from my hand and what’s left inside hits the floor, ice cubes sliding in all directions while my patient keeps retching, and I seriously question every choice I’ve ever made in my entire life.
By the time our hours are up for the afternoon, I don’t care if I never see this hospital again. “I shouldn’t still smell puke, should I?” I ask, looking down at myself and expecting there to be chunks on my regular clothes, which I changed into after putting on a second, clean set of scrubs. There’s nothing on my shoes, nothing in my hair or anything like that. But I still smell it. “Do I smell bad?”
My brother only gives me an exhausted stare, standing next to me as we wait for the elevator to take us to the lobby. I plan on running for the car and maybe even kissing the ground once we get out there. Do people seriously do this kind of work every day? “No worse than you usually smell. But don’t take my word for anything—I have old lady smell stuck in my nose.”
“That’s your fault for trying to get out of doing actual work by hanging out with the old ladies all day.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t be able to get away with that next time. They’re gonna be watching me closer, dammit.” He barely stifles a yawn as the doors slide open. Thank fuck. I need to get out of here. This has been the longest afternoon of my life and all I want is to get home and scrub every bit of it off my body.
Isn’t it funny how priorities change on a dime? Because as much as I can’t wait to get out of here and maybe rid myself of the odor of puke, all it takes is one look at the girl standing alone in the elevator car to make something else seem even more important.
Anticipation makes my blood hum. Emma. She told us her name is Emma, didn’t she? When she made a scene in front of all those people at school.
Emma leans her back against the wall, and as soon as she sees us, she folds her arms while her shoulders rise until they almost cover her ears.
“Fate is funny, isn’t it?” At least my brother sees the humor in this as we join her in the car, crowding in on her. There is something too satisfying about the way she shrinks a little. Because she’s nothing. She’s the entire reason I got puked on today.