You’re crazy too, like Harvey. I told you not to go down there. Didn’t I tell him that?” I grabbed the heavy pail and heaved it at her. I got slopped and blinded in the process. The pail missed her by an inch and banged against the corridor wall. But she got drenched too. She spluttered and swore. Then she crossed the threshold. She started coming toward me as she had so many times with Harvey. I imagined her overpowering me (suddenly shrunken and frail), sweeping me into her enormous arms and carrying me to the Volvo and the hospital, not his hospital, another kind of hospital. I grabbed the mop and used it like a bayoneted rifle. My eyes were on fire from the soap. She kept coming. I retreated, jabbing away with the mop as I’d done with the spade at Beth Anderson’s son in her garden at two in the morning months before. Cornered, I slipped behind one of the sensors. An unpleasant crunch underfoot barely registered. Hanna stopped dead in her tracks. I thought it was one of my vicious jabs until I saw the lens zooming out at her, synchronized with my movement.
