My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I stripped off my gloves, told Becca I'd bring her the zinc sulfate and aftercare instructions, and stepped into the hallway.
Another text. I almost didn't check it.
The first two days, my phone had been a constant assault. Matt, over and over, then Angela twice. Whatever messages I’d gotten, I’d just deleted without reading. Now I'd turned off notifications, let them pile up like junk mail, stopped flinching every time the screen lit up.
They'd slowed down now. Matt was down to once or twice a day, and Angela had gone silent completely, but I still felt that little spike of dread every time I looked at the screen. It was Pavlovian, like I was waiting for the next hit.
Except this time it wasn’t Matt or Angela.
Bryan.
Elena. I wanted to thank you. I know that sounds strange, but I needed to know.
I leaned against the wall, the fluorescent light above me flickering and buzzing.
I typed back:
You deserved to know. I'm sorry it had to come from me.
Three dots appeared.
How are you doing?
I almost laughed. What a question.
Feeling like shit. You?
Same.
Two people on opposite ends of the same grenade, both blown apart, both trying to figure out how to stand up again.
Another message came through.
Think we could talk? In person?
I thought about driving back to the city, walking those streets, breathing that air. The thought made my chest tight.
I don't want to come back to the city.
I can come to you. Or meet halfway. Whatever works.
There was a diner in Fairview I used to stop at on the drive between Millbrook and the city. It had decent coffee and quiet booths.
Fairview Diner, by the intersection. Tomorrow at noon?
I'll be there.
I put the phone back in my pocket and stood there for a moment in the flickering hallway, listening to the goat bleat in the exam room, smelling antiseptic and hay and the particular mustiness of a building that had seen better days.
Then I went back to work.
I gotto the diner twenty minutes early.
It was the kind of place that hadn't changed in thirty years and probably wouldn't change for thirty more. Red vinyl booths, Formica tables, a pie case by the register with the same three pies rotating since eons ago. The coffee was burnt and the pancakes were perfect and nobody bothered you if you wanted to sit alone.
While I waited, I unlocked my phone to find dozens of messages sitting there. None were worth opening, so I turned the phone facedown and set it on the table.
