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She narrowed her eyes, gauging my sincerity. “I can... try.”
“The code is ten seventeen.”
“Your birthday.”
I startled, but before I could ask how she knew that, I remembered: I was really a patient now, not just a coworker. I must’ve had a chart and everything.
Cassie went quiet except for her breathing apparatus. “If my sister were in the hospital, I’d want to know.”
I didn’t know much—anything—about her family, but I’d inadvertently learned over the last seven years that my coworkers’ families were nothing like mine, held together by bonds of blood and mutual hatred.
This wasn’t a question. My parents hadn’t even called when I was sick as a kid. My brother wasn’t an ocean away and didn’t show up to say his goodbyes.
I’d keep it simple. “Not my family.”
“We all have our problems—”
“You could call them every hour and it wouldn’t change anything. They don’t care.”
“Of course they do.”
“Cassie.” I couldn’t meet her gaze, and I wasn’t sure if I was speaking loudly enough to carry through her suit. “Just stop.”
“Okay.” She said nothing for the space of three breaths, then picked up a sheaf of papers from the tray she’d brought in earlier. “As promised, the guidelines, all of them: city, state and hospital. Figured you could put your time in here to good use, since you like working so much.”
“No, I’ll be too busy—signed up for one of those law degrees by correspondence while I’m in the clink.”
She pursed her lips and shoved the papers into my lap. As grateful as I was for the distraction they would provide once Cassie was gone, I had to ignore them and pull my dessert closer: a little bowl of chocolate pudding. I knew this likely came out of a number ten can and held nothing to a butterscotch buddino, and yes, I had both champagne tastes and a Château Cheval Blanc budget, but if you couldn’t enjoy chocolate pudding, something was really wrong with you.
Before I dove in, I looked back at Cassie. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.
“Here.” I set aside my spoon long enough to hand her the remote. “Find something decent.”
“Yes, sir, but I expect extra pay for this.”
“Double your current rate.”
“Very generous of you.” She flipped through the channels until she found a cheesy ’80s romantic comedy that I secretly kind of loved. “Sorry, you probably hate this movie,” she said. “I just—on the rare occasions I flip through the channels, if I see this on, I have to stop.”
I grinned at her. “Same.”
I settled into my sofa/bed/dining chair/theatre seat with my chocolate pudding. It was not a gala. It wasn’t even a date. The woman next to me still sounded like Darth Vader every time she inhaled.
And I could very well be dying.
But at least I’d have this one almost perfect moment first.
I’d watched a show with Davis and gone over the guidelines with him, but I finally had to leave before the hazmat suit dehydrated me straight to death. Although I’d gotten home with barely enough time to nuke leftovers before falling into bed—let alone fill in Natalie and Phil the philodendron—when I awoke at six the next morning, I was more than tempted to head straight back to Davis—er, Beaufort.
But I wasn’t ready to face him (yes, fine, I meant Davis) without a solid plan. A perfect plan. Though I couldn’t do much to fight anthrax, I had to do something more to help him.
Fortunately, Natalie talked me into a run Wednesday morning, probably so she could hear the news I’d been too tired to give last night. It certainly wasn’t because she thought I’d help her workout. My oldest sister was shorter and curvier than I was, but she had the aerobic endurance of a professional athlete.
Natalie always gave good advice; maybe she could help me with the deeper conundrum I was facing. But that was tricky, too, because now that Davis was a patient, any information about his diagnosis, treatment or status that could be connected to his identity was protected and private.
We were half a mile into the run before I figured it was best if I left his name out of it entirely. “So we got a suspected bioweapon attack at work yesterday.”
Natalie did a double take, nearly stepping off the sidewalk. “You’re involved with that?”
