It was almost eight and the air was muggy, still and thick like soup. All I could think about was a shower, a simple dinner, then a book. It had been a long day in the ER punctuated by a stabbing, a family in a car accident and a guy with one too many personalities. I had two more days to go this week so I was glad, when the ambulance went by with the siren blaring, it was someone else’s turn to patch them up. The little boy from the other day and an older man were sitting on my steps. He appeared to be in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and wore a full suit that hid the slight paunch of his stomach. In the heat, he somehow looked crisp and cool while I felt rumpled and wilted. My hair was long down my back in a sloppy tail, I had no makeup and I was sweating. The scent of antibacterial soap clung to me. Not the best way to greet guests. When they saw me approach, they stood. “Take one of the bags from the lady, Marco,” the man directed. “Hi, Miss Emory!” Marco trilled, grabbing a cloth bag from me with his little hands and wriggled it up and onto his shoulder so it didn’t drag on the ground.
