on his left foot dangles in midair.
“You got a little gum on your shoe, Cordell.”
He shakes his head. It’s not gum. It’s a plug. “They’re putting gasoline in my body. Every night. It goes in through that hole.”
“Who is they?”
“Remove the gum and you can see all the way to my brain.” He lets his foot drop back to the floor.
Eleven-thirty-three. Twenty-seven minutes and counting.
We’re a few blocks out from Grady when my phone rings. Cordell strains against the seat belt. “Who’s that? I said no one back here but us!”
Cordell reaches for his seat belt, and my stomach plunges. I yank out the phone. “Look! It’s my phone. Just a phone. It’s just us.”
He stares at my phone while I tighten my grip on the heavy laptop in my hands. If he attacks me, I’ll raise this computer and bash in his head.
Cordell nods and settles back into his seat.
It’s a relief when Marty finally pulls up to the ambulance ramp at Grady. I stand, lean over Cordell, and unbuckle his seat belt. He smiles, then grabs his bags and squeezes through the side door. We walk in, pass through triage, and head for the elevators. I move at a brisk pace. Cordell lumbers along behind me. He’s got a slight limp and veers almost imperceptibly to the right, a battleship with an engine out. When we hit the elevators, it’s 11:42. Eighteen minutes.
Grady is always crowded, and everyone wants to go up, down, anywhere but where they are, so no elevator is ever empty. Random people pile on, and eleven of the thirteen buttons between here and our final destination are pressed. After a prolonged interval during which I’m distracted by Cordell’s hulking mass, we arrive at Thirteen.
Fifteen minutes to spare.
Outside the elevators, we’re met by a security guard who sits alone at a table. One at a time, patients walk up and dump the contents of their mobile lives onto her desk. She sorts through crumpled bus maps, loose cigarettes, lighters, butter knives, old lottery tickets, broken sunglasses, and dirty underwear. Anything sharp, anything that can be broken and become sharp, anything someone can strangle himself with, anything that can be swallowed, it all gets confiscated.
The patients fuss and grumble, accuse her of stealing their stuff. Last time I lost my paper clips. Last time you smoked my cigarettes. Last time that fat bitch stole my bra.
Next to the table is a metal detector, and beyond that are the double doors leading to the psych wing. There’s a man on the other side, visible only as a lone finger tapping on the glass. He’s asking to be let out so he can smoke a cigarette. Just one. Real quick. After that he’ll come right back. He promises.
I ask Cordell how he’s doing, but there’s no response. He rocks back and forth, both hands gripping his belly, fingers digging into the skin.
“Okay. Well, you just be cool and they’ll get to us soon.”
The next six minutes pass in a frustrating, clock-watching blur.
The guard is still checking bags. “Take everything out,” she says over and over. “Your pockets, too. I have to see everything.”
All the while, the man on the other side of the door keeps tapping on the glass, keeps asking to go out for a smoke, real quick, because after that he’ll be right back. He promises.
“Next!”
I watch with vague interest as Cordell empties his pockets and the contents of his bags are cataloged. At last we’re through and it’s on to psychiatric triage.
Eleven-fifty. Ten minutes to go.
The staff tries to keep this area as calm as possible, but there’s only so much they can do. It smells like dirty socks and is packed with people who, for one reason or another, need immediate psychiatric help. In the middle of the room is a glass-walled nurse’s station, transparent and unhidden, so if a patient attacks the nurse, someone will see it right away. Tonight, naturally, it’s empty. Where the nurse has gone or when she’ll return, I have no idea. Cordell is starting to pace again. I tell him to relax, that we have all the time in the world. He just shakes his head. It’s getting close to midnight and he knows it.
Cordell tries to sit, but the seats are taken. He backs against the wall, arms folded over his stomach. He’s anxious, and the crowd in here isn’t helping.
There’s a woman wrapped in blankets spread out across three chairs, a man covered in grass and