A month of trials, disposing of a body, and the twenty-four-hour shift I finished yesterday morning knocked me out until dawn.
But I can’t put it off anymore. I’ll have to stop by my barber tonight since next week’s going to be busy, with Harold in my storage unit.
I place my dirty boxers on top of the locker, open it…
And frown.
“What the fuck?”
Last time I was here, after I showered at the end of my shift and put on a new pair of boxers, I remember having one clean pair left.
I think so, at least.
Was I too tired to notice I’d run out?
Frowning, I search some more, checking under my bag.
It’s not there either.
I lift my sweatshirt, T-shirt, and jeans and…nothing.
“Hey, Lockwood,” Abe, another trauma attending, calls over to me. “Coming or going?”
I never shower in the hospital before my shift starts.
Abe would’ve known that if we were friends.
We’re not. I keep a safe distance from him and everyone else.
Better this way.
Without bothering to look up, I murmur, “Going.”
“Cool.” He walks up to his locker. In my periphery, I watch him toss his backpack inside. “Lose something?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t stop searching, knowing they have to be here somewhere.
Unless…
I go still, staring at the locker as memories of the last shift slam into me.
Something was off about it. The end of it, anyway. As soon as I headed to the showers and before charting, I felt like I was being watched.
Yes, I talked to Becket as if everything was okay. I showered and dressed like I do at the end of every workday.
And yet.
That heaviness. It settled in the pit of my stomach and wouldn’t let go.
Now, my boxers are gone.
“Need help?”
I need something, but it isn’t his help. It’s making sure my notebook is still in my backpack, exactly where I left it yesterday.
The notebook where I write down every trial, every result, every fucking thing.