then hang a right onto a dead-end street, and there it is: Sunshine Acres. The buildings is tall and Soviet-esque—completely devoid of frill. The parking deck is dark and dank, even by parking deck standards. I tell myself my imagination is exaggerating, but I swear there’s a thick layer of grime on everything.
The lobby, accessible from the third floor of the deck, is a vast space under a low-lying ceiling, filled with plastic chairs and smelling of stale carpet. There’s a cut-out in the wall where two women and a man sit behind a counter.
I stop in front of a stick-thin woman with short black hair and ask for the charge nurse. I’m not nervous, because I know if she says “No,” I’ll come back in a few hours, and I’ll find a way to sneak inside. I’ll wait for Cross’s nurse to take a bathroom break. I’ll decide for myself how well he’s doing, and damn their lousy visiting hours.
The charge nurse appears a minute later, leaning out one of the unmarked steel doors and wearing bright green scrubs and a name tag that says OLIVE. She looks me over, from my Ugg Moccasins to my jeans and discount designer sweater, and she folds her arms across her chest. “It’s Saturday,” she says. “What do you want with me?”
I can tell she’s a straight-shooter, so I match my tone to hers and cut right to the chase. “My friend Cross Carlson just got here, and I’d really like to see him. I know it’s a Saturday, but I’m desperate. So I’m asking for a favor—just this once.”
She blinks at me. It’s an exaggerated blink, almost comical, and afterward she bugs her eyes out, like she’s just heard something sensational. “Do you know who’s running this place today?” she asks me in a dead-pan tone.
I shake my head, and she says, “Frankie, and Frankie’s not here right now. I can let you in this once, but you’ve got fifteen minutes before Frankie gets back from lunch. If Frankie catches you, you’re shrimp.”
I frown as she pushes the door open for me, then hustle behind her down the wide, gray-carpeted hall. “Just out of curiosity, what’s shrimp mean?”
She shoots a menacing look over her shoulder. “It means you’ll get your head bit off.”
I follow her around two corners, and at this point, my heart is pounding. The hall has started smelling more like a hospital or nursing home—that smell of soiled linens, cleaning chemicals, and sweat. We pass a row of slender metal doors, Chiclets punched into the drab, white wall, and I want to turn and run away. Cross can’t be here. It was bad enough at his last place, but at least it had luxury trappings to blunt the horror. This looks like exactly what it is.
Olive stops before a metal door and nods at it. “Better hurry.”
I push through the door without taking time to calm myself, and the sight of a stained blue curtain dividing the room shocks me. There’s barely enough space for a hospital bed between the curtain and the wall, and as my eyes move over the bed’s metal rails, I know it can’t be Cross because this patient is lying flat on his back with his—or her—head wrapped in gauze, and he or she is intubated. The breathing machine looming beside the bed makes a noise that brings back memories of a childhood full of ICUs.
I’m headed for the curtain, hoping against hope that Cross will be sitting up in his bed, when the curtain parts and a freckle-faced nurse appears. She’s frowning like she’s confused, and her shirt is tugged halfway over her head, exposing a lacy, black bra.
My heart leaps in elation. Cross...you wicked thing.
Then I smell the vomit. The nurse is holding a garbage bag, I realize. I quickly notice that the pale pink scrubs shirt she’s pulling off is flecked with yucky stuff. Did Cross barf on her?
I frown as she pushes down the stained shirt.
“What happened?”
“Mr. Russell, next door.” She frowns, and I realize she’s holding a clean shirt in her left hand. “What are you doing in here? You the new hire here to audit?”
I nod behind her. “I’m here to see my friend, Cross Carlson.”
Her face scrunches, unreadable. “Oh.”
I try to see past her, but she’s blocking my view.
“Hun, this is the college professor.” She leans her head back. “Dr. Dottswold.”
I look from left to right. “So wait, this isn’t Cross’s room?”