Page 130 of Ten Day Affair
Leon shrugs and walks off, his keys echoing against the storage shed. I stay crouched by the van, staring at the ghost of whatever program this used to represent.
It’s beenone of those bone-bruising kinds of days. My body’s exhausted, but weirdly, I’m more awake than I’ve felt in weeks.
The break room’s overhead fluorescents buzz like dying insects. I drop into a plastic chair that’s seen better decades and pull out my phone. Kip answers on the second ring.
“Tell me someone didn’t die on your watch today,” he says, skipping any kind of normal greeting.
“Not yet. Your interns still terrified of you?”
He grunts. “One cried today. I count that as bonding.”
“Speaking of trauma, bonding, how’s the coffee situation down there? Still taste like motor oil?”
I glance toward the sad little pot in the corner. The carafe’s stained brown, like it gave up years ago.
“Let’s just say the coffee here makes Good Sam feel like a high-end café.”
“Hospitals and shit coffee. Name a more iconic duo.”
The familiar rhythm of our banter is good for my soul. It's easy, and for a second, it even tricks my nervous system into unclenching.
But when the conversation hits a lull, everything rushes back—the van, Leon’s face, the weight of things that used to matter.
“Sam? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Still carrying it?”
It’s not a question. Kip hears the stuff I don’t say better than most people hear the words I do.
“It’s easing up.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see it. “It is what it is. I’m surviving.”
He hasn’t asked about the article, not directly. But I know he knows. Everyone in our world knows. He’s waiting for me to talk about it, but I’m not ready. The silence stretches between Atlanta and Indianapolis. I trace a fingertip along the scratched table, watching the sun angle through the grimy window.
How do you explain that some wounds don’t heal? They just get better at hiding.
“Tell me about your day instead.”
“Nice deflection. But okay.” He knows when to push and when to back off.
He launches into a play-by-play of the same residents, different disasters. I’m half listening, grateful not to be alone in this mess, and half watching the ink smear from the pen I’m fidgeting with.
"Hey, listen to this. I found this old medical van behind the hospital today. Just sitting there, abandoned."
"Uh, huh. Groundbreaking."
"Shut up. I'm serious. It was part of an outreach program. Mobile clinic stuff. They used to drive through the neighborhoods every Friday. Sounds like such a great program in a city like this."
My voice gets quieter without meaning to. I can picture Leon's expression when he talked about it, like he was remembering something sacred.
"I've heard of things like that in urban areas."
"They had to stop, though, because of a lack of funds. Sucks. It's a fully equipped mini-hospital rotting in the back of the hospital parking lot. Isn't that awful? I'm sure they spent a ton of money getting started. That van alone probably cost a couple hundred grand."
