Recently, a mouse had been eating away at the ER's sandwich stash.
Though, maybe it were two mice, or a whole family. Otherwise, it might just be Whitaker, whose wet lips longingly chased the scent of stale sandwiches in Pittsburgh's most pathetic hunt.
Hunger came naturally to the Pitt. Perlah remembered the crawling sensation as her body got used to the workload, to the shifts, the hours, the stress. She remembered the sting that came from standing on her feet for eighteen hours. She remembered the shakes that came from coming home and crashing first, only eating in the mornings. Of course she had adjusted, but the first month was brutal. Breaking in a body was a task.
Consequently, she kept quiet when she saw Whitaker steal a sandwich for himself. The kid was smart about it too; always taking two when a patient requested one. Plausible deniability. She said nothing when she found him rummaging through the break room, clearly scanning the cupboard’s meagre edible contents. Funnily enough, he didn’t seem to steal their coworkers’ meals from the fridge. And hell, he had all the reason to; Tupperware full of salads, noodles, rice dishes, sauces — meals that made Perlah's stomach clench, let alone a hungry med student's.
So, this was a fact: Perlah knew hunger. Perlah knew the hungry. Perlah didn’t know Whitaker.
Nebraska, he had once said to her, I’m from my parents’ farm in Nebraska. I’m the first one in my family to go to college. But that could mean anything, she knew. He didn’t need a lecture on meal prep — that’s what Instagram was for, anyways. But he did need something, and if she could pride herself with one quality, it was her ability to improvise.
Perlah saw her time to shine on Tuesday morning, just before shift change. With the burly baskets stacked on top of each other, she barged into the break room, purposefully startling Whitaker, who jumped up from his crouched position under the sink.
“It’s a damn shame,” she sighed and flung the cargo down onto the swaying table. “Everyday we throw away the leftovers. Perfectly good sandwiches.”
Whitaker swallowed. “Really?” His voice came away in that murine tone of his. She nodded.
“Can’t hand out sandwiches tomorrow that can double as bricks, can you?” She pointed to the basket. “Take your fill as long as they’re edible.”
She reached the door, then turned around again to see Whitaker already up to his elbows in bread.
“You should take a handful. I’ll tell Dana that I put the trays in here.”
The door clattered shut. She smiled. If Dana asked her where the sandwiches went, she’d tell her that they were all gone. Presumably, it wouldn’t even be a lie.
Garcia couldn’t watch it anymore.
It had become physically painful to see one of Robby’s med students fidget and scurry and scrunch up his face every two seconds. Daniel or Damien or whatever his name was. The one Trinity couldn’t shut up about.
“Something the issue, Whitaker?” She raised her brow over the bloody gurney. He shook his head.
“No. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay,” she nodded, “Then I expect more focus.”
“Yes,” his smile was brief, his lips dropped quickly, “Of course.”
Forty-five minutes later, “No, don’t worry about it” turned out to be a filthy lie when Garcia stumbled upon Whitaker’s shaking form in the unisex restroom, silently crying and retching up his dilute stomach contents.
“Okay,” she knelt down beside him. Through the nitrile gloves she felt him shiver and strain as he lifted his head from the trashcan’s rim.
“I shouldn’t worry about it, huh? Let me see.” She hooked her gentle fingers under his chin to turn his face, but he flinched away. “Your jaw?”
He nodded. “Turn it, please. How’s your pain?”
“Okay,” he lied.
From this angle, the culprit seemed conclusive; A swollen cheek and jaw, the entire half of his face red and warm. “Open wide,” she instructed and ignited her penlight.
Awesome. This mouth was no mystery.
“Christ, Whitaker,” she cursed under her breath, “Call your dentist.”
He chuckled, his shoulders shaking. “You know a good one?”
She slid the light back into her breast pocket. “Yeah, actually. My wife works three blocks away.”
Whitaker’s face sobered, his eyes resting on the plumbing. God, this was unbearable.
“Listen, if you’re concerned about doctor-patient confidentiality with my wife, you should know that –”
“What? No!” He winced when the sudden words made his pain flare. “No, it’s just... Med student, you know... No insurance.”
Oh right. Yeah. Fuck. She had forgotten about that. Add it to the list of reasons why this country sucked.
Garcia was no idiot. There had been talks for a while. Whispers and gossip and although she had tried to shut all of it down as soon as possible, she couldn’t help but find truth in the words tattled about Whitaker: Struggling, poor, bad off. Potentially homeless.
“That’s not what I mean,” she sighed. “It would be an in-house referral. We always do it this way. Costs you nothing.”
His eyes fluttered shut. Not that his demeanor was any different on a good day, Garcia noticed, but today seemed to be a new low with his elbow still resting on the box he puked in, his eyes hollow and ghostly and a line of spit dribbling onto his chin. “Really?” He asked.
“Yeah. What kind of painkillers have you taken today?”
“Uh... none.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m getting you an ibu-800 in a minute. Then you’re off. Understood?” He nodded. “And I’ll text you my wife’s number.”
Autumn came crashing into the Pitt like this motorcyclist had come crashing into the guardrail. With the wind came the chill, with the chill came the injuries. The staff waved goodbye to the heat strokes and marathoners and welcomed the flu season with crossed arms. Mostly, it was business as usual.
It still took Whitaker by surprise when a balled up sweater landed squarely on his chest. “Hey kid!” Dana greeted with a laugh from the chaos’s center.
“What’s this?” He asked, running his fingers through the soft fleece.
“Old pullover,” she shrugged, “I’m trying to thin out my closet. You can have it.”
Curiously, he untangled the garment and held it up to his body. A colourful print showing three litres of beer greeted him with a catchy slogan. “Wow!” He marvelled, “I’ve always wanted to wear a pullover that advertises a... healthy alcohol consumption. Thanks!”
Dana snorted.
“If you’re just being ungrateful,” she mocked, snatching the fabric from his arms, “You don’t get to have it.”
“No, I like it,” he took it back, immediately slipping it over his scrubs, “It’s soft.”
“Keep it, before you freeze to death. And look through the pile,” Dana pointed to a tray at her feet, “There’s a pair of jeans in there too that might fit you.”
“Which is a damn shame!” Princess said from below and stood up, pointing a finger at Dennis, “You know you could stand to gain a few pounds–”
“Ignore her,” Dana murmured, as Whitaker’s sheepish gaze followed her elbow into Princess' ribs.
In the end, it happened quietly and without warning. One evening, Dennis clocked out on time and crashed into his bed - the next morning, the ER was filled with men in cargo pants and tight black t-shirts that read “JANIAK SECURITY”.
Dennis hadn’t seen them filter in. He wasn’t early every day anymore, his commute now elongated significantly by Santos’ generosity.
Hanging around the nurses’ station, he eyed them suspiciously until Robby waltzed in. He stepped briefly onto the linoleum floor, then took off his sunglasses, shook his head and immediately made a beeline for the strange men.
“Hello, excuse me? What exactly are you doing here?”
“Uh,” one of the taller men stuttered, “We’re the new security and inspection team.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah...” another one took over, “There have been repeated reports of the lights burning in the empty ward. Potentially caused by squatters.”
Robby chuckled: “And most definitely caused by light switches!”
Silence befell the men. “We’re here to get the invaders out today.”
Something strange churned in Dennis’ stomach. He scratched his neck but the prickling sensation wouldn’t budge. Involuntarily, he drew his shoulders closer to his ears.
“Whoa there!” Robby tried to assuage the men, “I mean, when you say ‘Invaders’... we’re not fighting for life or death here. You don’t think that’s just the cleaning staff?”
“Respectfully, Sir, don’t you think that the Hospital Administration has thought about this before calling us?”
He took a step back. “Right, right...”
That’s when Dennis caught Abbot’s piercing stare from across the room. Sharp and demanding. A twitch of the head, then he narrowed his eyes, and before he could even think about what he was doing, Whitaker had departed the ER.
His feet raced him up the maintenance stairwell, reaching the corridor he had once lived in. He had been so stupid. So incredibly stupid. Of course people would find out. Of course it had only been a matter of time when somebody would see the lights from outside.
With panting breaths he stood in his old room. He couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of possession towards the place. It wasn’t his – it had never been his – but his limbic system couldn’t care less.
Despite his fears, the room seemed devoid of any past human presence. He had been thorough when he had ‘moved out’ two weeks ago. No sock left, all cupboards empty, not a candy wrapper lost under the bed, not a tissue in the trash. There was no trace of Dennis Whitaker left. He remembered having swept the place, though hospital corners lay outside his skill set. It had to be enough.
He closed the door and he rushed back down through the dark corridor, through chairs back into the ER. Somehow, Robby was still talking to the men, though they seemed increasingly eager to get him off their backs.
When Dennis resumed his place just under the nurses’s station, Robby acknowledged his presence with a smile, then said: “Okay, I guess. Good luck on catching the squatter,” then turned and seamlessly changed gears to tend to a patient.
The men passed Whitaker on their way upstairs, mumbling: “What the hell was his problem?”
Dennis caught a quick sigh of relief. Crisis averted! he thought, just as Abbot’s hands came to rest on his shoulders. Or maybe not...
Mean digits dug into his skin. He felt Abbot’s beard scratch his ear, the aftertaste of coffee lingering between them. “This is why squatting happens in abandoned buildings.” The words sent a shiver down his spine. Dennis straightened up.
Okay! He swallowed. Lesson learnt!
And then, as if nothing had just occurred, Abbot slapped him twice on the shoulder, leaving him flushed and flustered and ready to begin his shift.