7:00 a.m.

The haircut was the result of a desire to break through a mold in which she was supposed to fit.  In truth, molds were for cookies and chocolates, not for people.  But since people insisted on the molds, she shaved the sides right off, to break out of that flipping mold.

It was 6:45 a.m. and she looked in the mirror. 

The top of her hair was silver, breaking into a periwinkle and finally rose, the color that hit her shoulders like soft feathers.  When she tied it back in a ponytail, it was plain to see that the sides of her head were shaved clean above her ears. 

Instead of the predictable panic, her parents reacted mildly. 

“I guess you could do worse than shave off part of your hair,” Mother said, pouring olive oil over the salmon.  Then she looked up and smiled.  “Will you please get your clothes out of the dryer and hang them up?”

Dad's reaction was no different.  When she showed revealed the crazy hair, it was via selfie: from her iPhone to his.  “What do you think?” she texted.

“You should smile in pictures!”  Dad wrote back.  

Where was his indignation? His panic?  Shouldn’t he give her a lecture?   Why weren’t they more like the parents that her friends had?

The clock said 6:48.  

She put on a thin coat of lip gloss and stood up; it was nearly time to go.  Her first day of middle school was not one she was looking forward to.  Smarter than most of the kids in her class, she had been laying low so that the teachers would not make her go into those gifted classes she hated so much.  Instead, she decided to learn and produce enough to excel, but not show her true brilliance until she could do so anonymously. 

Her outfit was carefully understated, chosen especially for the first day so that she could show off her designs but not stand out.  Middle school had such a complicated balance of irritations; she would have to navigate the river without overturning her canoe in the first week.  She was sure she could do it.

Cut off shorts with pockets spray painted and sticking out, a t-shirt, lacy vest and a bandanna in her hair that matched her vest.  

Her face was perfect, Dad liked to tell her.  He said she was the kind of girl that didn’t need make-up.  She had the same kind of Raphael face that Mom had.  She normally hated comparisons, but Dad loved Mom’s face more than anything.   It was a compliment.

6:52.

She tried on her Hercules sandals, then changed her mind and chose her gladiator sandals.  These were the ones that everyone would be wearing, but they did go with her design the best.  After months of sewing and clothes design, the outfit was the thing she wanted to showcase; shoes were secondary.

She picked up her backpack and threw it over her shoulder.  The amount of books she was required to carry everyday was incredibly stupid; there had to be a locker she could have.  Last year, the school ran out of them and the new kids had to carry their books.  She wondered if the same thing would happen this year again.

She stood up and examined herself.  She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was special.  A lot of kids thought of themselves as special, but she knew that in her case it was true.  She was brilliant, stylish, beautiful, talented and lived in a house that was filled with love. 

7:00.  Time for school.

As soon as she opened her door, she was greeted by her cat, brushing past her.  Cat had been waiting to be let into her room and was impatient to get into her bed.   

“Um….” She considered evicting the cat; she was shedding a little too much.  “Well, alright.”

She decided to permit the cat to stay; after all, she wasn’t able to control the cat.  Cats loved breaking the rules that humans set out for them. 

She ran down the stairs, just in time to hear her mother open the garage door.  

5:00 a.m.

5:00 a.m.

Batman flew through the air, hitting the wall with a nasty thud.  As he fell to the ground, Batman left a big, gaping hole.  Ben looked over at his sleeping brothers and decided to wake them up and show them the uh-oh. Batman was in trouble.  Batman was bad.

“Steve!”  Ben shouted.  “Look!”

Steve turned over in his crib, looking at the wall.  His eyes were small slits and he yawned.  Slowly, the fuzz went away and he looked at Ben, who was pointing at the wall.  Steve's eyes surveyed the giant  white space, its two bookshelves and hanging TV.  When he saw the hole, he smiled. 

“What happened?” 

Standing up on his mattress, he held on to his crib rail.  He knew better than to get out of bed before Mama came in; he would be in deep trouble if he made that choice. 

Next to him, Ben was taller than Steve.  They were born on the same day, but Ben was taller, faster, stronger and (at least this morning) more stinky. Steve wondered if that was why Ben woke up first; his pants were full of doo-doo.  

Steve loved the way Mama would smile and say that.  Sometimes she would poke their belly buttons with her shiny finger when she asked them, “ Are your pants full of doo-doo?”   

“What happened?” Steve repeated; Ben was still staring at the hole.  Ben finally looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

“Batman flew into the wall!”

Their laughter woke Robert, who stood in his crib immediately.  Upon seeing his brothers laughing, he jumped up and down. 

“Ba! Ba! Ba!”  His tongue dangled out of his mouth. Robert wanted to keep his brothers laughing, but he suddenly stopped; he could smell doo-doo.  He felt the underside of his pajamas for moisture or lumps. 

“Rob, LOOK!” Ben pointed at the hole in the wall.  Robert looked up, satisfied that his own pants weren’t filled.  Both of his brothers were pointing at the wall; his view was slightly obstructed by a bookshelf.

“What?”

“Look!”

Climbing over the rail, Rob hit the floor and ran over to Steve.  Steve shook his head wildly and tried to correct his brother; it was no use.  Robert ran up to the wall and pointed at the hole.

“Bad! Who did that?”  In almost the same breath, both Steve and Ben shouted an answer.  From Steve came: “Ben did it!”  From Ben came: “Give me Batman!”

Robert looked down and saw the plastic toy figure at his feet, regarded it carefully and then looked up at his brothers.  Steve was motioning toward his crib, warning him - with the motion that their Mama used – to get back in.  Ben had pleading eyes, his arm was outstretched toward Batman.  

Robert reached down and picked it up and walked it over to Ben, who smelled ripe and stinky.  Ben grabbed it quickly from his hand  and sat down with a squish.  It was then that Robert heard the toilet flush; Mama was awake. He would be in trouble if she found him out of his crib. Steve heard it,too; he started to panic.

"Get back in!  She's coming!"

“Ok,” Robert said.  He ran toward his crib and attempted to get back in as fast as he could.  In a panic, he twisted his foot  so that it got caught between the slats.  He tried to hoist himself, but his foot would not come loose.  “OW!” he cried.  Hot, fat tears accompanied the pinching pain; Steve began to cry, panicked that it was happening again.  He fell down on his mattress, shoved his face into his pillow and pretended to be asleep.  He could hear Mama’s footsteps.

In between playing with Batman and watching Steve cry, Ben saw his brother, foot caught in the terrible crib and decided to help him.  He threw one leg over the rail and slid down, his sagging diaper drooping more as he moved.  By the time he made it over to his crying brother, the dirty disposable  mess had come loose and landed, doo-doo side up, in the middle of the floor.  The majority of his poo clung to his bare bottom, like peanut butter on white bread. 

Robert, even in pain, did not want to be helped by his dirty-bottomed brother.  He kicked at him with his free foot, crying desperately for the pain in the other to stop.  

It was this scene that Mama saw when she opened to door:  

In one crib, a sobbing child pretended to be asleep.  In the middle of the floor, a dirty diaper lay doo-doo side up (thank God).  Another child had his foot lodged between his crib slats for the third time this week (for this reason, she didn't panic). Her remaining child was crying, holding his bruised arm and sporting a bottom smeared with feces.  It was this child she decided to attend to first.

“Good morning, Ben,” Mama talked in her robot voice.  The voice was neither angry nor happy; it was the morning voice that hadn't had coffee. She scooped up her child under the arms, bringing him into the adjoining bathroom.  “Bath time!”

For a moment, her child objected, through tears.  “We haven’t had dinner!  I haven’t even had cereal!”

As she set him in the tub, she warned him not to move.  He saw the look in her eye and decided to obey.  She went back for Robert, whose foot easily became dislodged with her help.  His tears soon dried up and he was trying to tell her something about the wall, but she carried him to the bathroom, in a foggy daze.  

Steve, from his crib, now realized he would have to scream to get Mama’s attention, from his place in the bedroom.  Through his tears he heard the water running, the cries of his brothers and his Mama’s voice, saying “Just do it!”

He cried and cried, before seeing her  return to him.  Her face was pink and pretty and he wanted her more than ever.  She picked him up and took him into the bathroom, where he tried to keep clinging to her.  It was only when he saw that the bathtub basketball game was set up that he let go of her neck.

He looked over at Ben, who sat in the sink, bottom being washed by the slow tap.  He imagined the warm water breaking up the smeared doo-doo and washing it down the drain.  He had sat in the same sink, in the same position, for the same offense many times.

It wasn’t until naptime that Mama found the hole in the wall.  She looked at her silent sons, who seemed to have forgotten all about the events that caused it.  By the time Daddy got home, she had already spackled it.

Alannah

Harmony and Alannah

Today was an unusually busy day; I am going to bed winded and exhausted.  Fridays are my days to go to Chico and “help” Alicia (Grandma language for ‘my day with my granddaughters’). It also is one day before Alannah turns four years old. 

In true Grandmother fashion, I brought a helium tank, balloons, and gifts.  Alannah, like her mother, loves to celebrate her birthday. 

“I’m so glad we’re making a party!” She told me, excitedly.  This was before or day turned busy and filled with activity.  “Who is invited?”

Alannah loves people and of course the first thing she wants to do is invite a bunch of folks to my private birthday party.  I cannot help comparing this behavior to her mother – my  own baby who also loves a lot of company when I desire private time with her; a girl who loved people around.   

If we are in Safeway, Alannah will strike up a conversation with the random person picking out oranges next to our cart.  “What’s your name?” 

The person will be so charmed, they tell her.  She starts asking about their family, their favorite fruits, if they regularly have oranges…  It is a sight to see.

I

When we finally had arts and crafts time in the afternoon, Alannah drew a picture of her “birthday party” – one she was having for herself on paper. 

“EVERYONE is invited!” She exclaimed, drawing stick person after stick person with smiling faces.  “This is Mama!  This is Harmony!  There you are Grandma – and here is Grandpa! Here is Jensen!  This is Yaya and Owa with Sissy… here is Daddy.  This is Auntie Morgan and Jay-D…I have to make Auntie Alannah and Kynan.  Here is Baby Scarlett – and here is Baby Harvey.  Scarlett has to watch out for Harvey because she is older than him….”

I looked up from chopping celery to survey her picture.  It was filled with activity and life.  “How do you know that Scarlett is older than Harvey?” I asked her. 

“Here are my girl cousins.  Laila and Lili and Lauren…”

It is hard to talk about the swells of love that come and go in my heart.  I explode with joy and love for the life in Alannah.  I love how she wants to bring us all together in her picture even if we can’t be together in person.  

I decided to sit down and draw with her.  I made a card with a big cake on it – four layers with four candles- since she is four years old.

“No Grandma!  I want just a little cake!”

Next to the tall cake, I drew a cupcake.  Harmony leaned over and drew and arrow next to it.  “There!  That’s the one Alannah will eat!”

And that’s the one she’ll pretend to eat.  A paper cupcake for my little baby granddaughter – who is already four.  Time certainly flies.

Happy Birthday, Alannah!  Grandma loves you!

3:00 a.m.

The air was warm and thick, like a typical Georgia summer.  Next to Aiden, his wife Katrina slept peacefully, her slow steady breathing nasal enough to hear, but not loud enough to be called a snore.  She had been asleep for three hours, exhausted after a day of chasing their daughters: two and three year olds.  Aiden reached over to her and rubbed her shoulder, hoping she might wake up.

How long had it been since they made love?  Five days?  Longer?  It was a weekend, he remembered.  Tomorrow was Friday…it had been six or seven days.  He rubbed her shoulder harder, but her breathing continued.  Katrina’s blonde hair hung in front of her face and she was wearing her striped pajamas that made her look shapeless, but he remembered what was underneath.  In the darkness, he scooted closer to her.

This motion made her inhale deeply and turn away from him, sighing in disapproval.  She had warned him many times not to disturb her REM sleep; Aiden suddenly realized she would not be aroused by an early morning wake-up. 

The alarm clock glowed in the black of night: 3:00 a.m.  He fell back on his pillow, exhaling in frustration.  How could he EVER possibly repay his student loan?  It was unlikely, even after doubling his monthly payments like he had this last year, that he would ever make a dent.  He now had a six figure debt; one that might disqualify him for a home loan.  With his daughters counting on him to provide a stable home life, how could he have let this happen?  Then again, how could it have been avoided? His parents were normal folks who were too busy paying the bills to think about college savings.  He had the grades to go to college; but not brains enough to do the math. 

The air was warm.  There was a drought and he couldn’t water the lawn.

What kind of world would let honey bees become an endangered species?  Why did he have to explain to his daughters that there were no lavender bushes because his beloved homeland had overused pesticides?  It was now up to him to explain that adults had screwed it all up.  

All of it.  

The whole world was dangling by a thread and mankind was poised with scissors, waiting for the chance to snip it and have it all go to hell.

He sat up and reached for his glass of water.  There was still a swallow or two left, he was sure.  He felt the rim, placed his hand around the glass and then lifted it to his mouth.  The thin glass was smooth against his lips; Aiden lifted it until a small trickle of water wet his tongue.  It was gone; he had drunk it an hour before and forgot that he had until now. 

Maybe he would get up and watch TV, he thought.  The girls were heavy sleepers and their room had a fan.  Then again, if he woke them they’d never go back to sleep and he’d be in trouble for sure.  No one would sleep at all.

Aiden sank back down into his pillow.  It was so warm.  Should he take off his T-shirt?  No, too much trouble.  He stared at the ceiling until he could see the familiar shape of the ceiling fan.

Nixon started it.  If it weren’t for him, the American presidency would still be respected.  That whole presidency was such a deceptive piece of history;  who was responsible for all that deception?  The whole Warren Report was a joke, he heard.  Was that available for viewing?  Could it be Googled?  Why the hell did Nixon resign rather than face impeachment?  After all, if Clinton could get impeached, and survive his Senate trial…

Aiden yawned.  It felt good to yawn and it reminded him he was tired.  He turned on his side and faced Katrina’s back.  The clock said 3:15; he had to get up in a couple of hours, but two hours was better than no sleep at all.  He stroked a piece of her blonde hair.  Why had she chosen him?

He felt her stir, and then she turned over and faced him.  Her breath smelled like rotten eggs, but he didn’t move.  

Was she awake? 

“Hmmm” her voice sounded delicious and contented.  She tucked her hands under her chin.

“Are you awake?” He whispered, coyly.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said groggily.

In a few seconds her breathing returned to normal.  

Aiden flipped on to his back again, making out the shape of the ceiling fan.  

If only Nixon hadn’t taken the presidency; then things would be different.

.

2:00 a.m.

If you want to be happy for the rest of your life

Never make a pretty woman your wife

Those words stuck to Theo’s brain, a school-boy song he sang when he and his brothers were playing basketball in the neighborhood.  It was a catchy tune, one that made them dance and show off for the girls in the street.  He looked out the window now, the basketball courts were dark now and all but the junkies had gone home.  The street was lit by three lights; the lamp on the north-east corner of Zerega Avenue had been broken for weeks now.

Celia had been gone since four to visit her sister in Brooklyn; it was now close to two a.m.  Theo thought of going down to Lorraine’s to see if she was closing the bar again, but the kids were asleep in the next room and it was Friday night and this was, after all, Castle Hill.

Theo looked at his phone again: 2:00.

Pacing back and forth in the front room wasn’t working; the television was filled with junk.  Where was she?  She promised she was finished with alcohol, but Theo knew it was all lies.  He noticed the scarlet threads in her eyes when she actually made eye contact with him.  She accused him of being her parole officer, a reference to his own stint in prison.  There was no winning living with an addict; he was bound to fail, no matter what he did.

2:03.

She promised she’d changed the last time he caught her with Henry, their building super.  He had come home to find them on the couch, kissing and pawing each other like sixteen-year-olds.  A bottle of brandy was on the coffee table next to them.  They scattered like cockroaches when Theo overturned the table, sending the bottle, the ashtray and the TV remotes flying over their heads.

The incident was followed by weeks of tears; Celia begging to be forgiven and promising to go to AA meetings.  Theo stewed.  In a moment of weakness he let his guard down and she did it again. He knew better than to trust her.  Love her, yes.  Want her, yes.  Make love to her, yes.  Trust her?  Never again.

2:15.

He put his cell phone on the charger by the sink.  He noticed that he hadn’t done the dinner dishes.  He  filled the dishpan with warm water and suds and wiped them down carefully.  He glanced back at the wall clock.

 2:18.

There was a noise in the hallway.  He stopped what he was doing to listen.  It was Mrs. Craft and her son, returning from the Donner St. Church prayer meeting.  He heard them make themselves at home next door; the walls were paper thin.  They were trying to be quiet, but Theo almost told them not to bother.

After the dishes, Theo remembered the front room’s dirty ceiling fan he had been noticing all week.  He took a kitchen chair and put it underneath, returning to kitchen for the dishpan.  It still had plenty of sudsy water.  He dipped the dishrag in the suds, wrung it out and began wiping weeks of grime from the paddles.

Celia was never much of a housekeeper, but lately she hadn’t cleaned anything at all.  When he met her she was an effervescent church-going girl who could sing.  She was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, energetic and funny.  He fell in love with her and she knew it; she thought he was nice and stable.  Somewhere along the line, she decided that it would be good if they married.  He thought he was the luckiest man in the world.

The stairs creaked.  He stopped wiping the ceiling fan and listened closely.  The jingle of her keys.  He stepped off the chair and watched the doorknob turn slowly, the door creak open.  She looked in carefully and saw him, standing in the middle of the front room with a dishpan in one hand and a rag in the other.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” she half-shouted at him.  Her green dress clung to her tiny waist, the hem swayed merrily as she threw her purse down on the couch. 

Theo suppressed the urge to throw the dirty water at her.  He assessed her condition.  Was she drunk?

“What are you talking about?” he yelled. "I been waiting on you all night!"

“I been calling you!  I witnessed a robbery and I been at the police station!”

Confused and angry, Theo marched into the kitchen, threw the dishpan in to the sink, its greasy water splashing up and soaking the edge of the curtains. He picked up his phone, and saw a missed call from Celia. 

After unlocking it, it turned back to her.

“That’s right, I called you!”  Celia had followed him and was now standing, hands on her hips and raging mad.  “How am I supposed to get home?  Walk?”

Theo looked at the call details.  Celia had just called him ten minutes ago at 2:30.  He must have been cleaning the ceiling fan.

“You called ten minutes ago,” Theo stared blankly at her.  His anger had left him; he was now plotting.  How could he get her to move out of their apartment?  She would never agree to leave the children in his custody; it would be a big legal fight that neither of them could afford.

“Well?” She stood in front of him, expecting some kind of fight.  It was the way she did things; the way they had done things for ten years.  Fights were now their only intimate times.  Theo looked at her and realized it was over.

He looked at his phone.  2:41.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, sadly.  “When I get up, you should be packed and ready to leave.”

“Like hell!”

He was walking to his bedroom when he heard her, raging and swearing. He should have married an ugly girl; he knew the song was right.

1:00 a.m.

The popcorn ceiling glittered; its flecks of gold looked like stars in the pink glow of the digital clock.  Belle was on her back, staring at it.  She had gone to bed hours ago, but the night was warm and her heart was broken.  She wondered if the starry ceiling contained asbestos, which could be a problem.  As a nurse, Belle knew that asbestos fibers, inhaled in large quantities, could cause lung disease, scarring of the lungs and even cancer.  Why hadn’t she noticed it before?

The clock flickered: 1:00 a.m.

She looked past its digital display and saw Marli’s empty bed.  Belle remembered the first time she had seen Marli, at a jumble sale at the SPCA.  Several dogs were among the wares, showcased in cages in the hopes that shoppers, like her, might actually consider a rescue adoption.  As Belle passed Marli’s kennel, she looked in- and saw the Cocker Spaniel looking back at her hopefully.  She stopped, and looked again, the same way she would have done if she’d recognized an old friend she wanted to greet. 

“What’s your name?” She whispered, examining the tag attached to the kennel.

 

“Marli,” Belle said aloud, lying in bed.  The dog’s name was Marli. 

The word rescue made Belle popular among her friends.  After all, she was single and living on a nurse’s salary in a home with a backyard.  Belle could have chosen any dog she wanted; instead, she rescued a poor, abandoned Cocker Spaniel from the SPCA. 

“What a hero you are to that dog,” they’d say.  “ After all, how long would she have lived at that shelter if you hadn’t come along?”

The clock flickered.  1:15 a.m.

Belle had to work in four hours.  She turned on her side, flipping the pillow to the cool side.  She was now facing empty bed, and after a minute decided to turn over again, facing away. 

The sheets were warm and heavy.  Belle tossed them away from her.

Belle went to pick the dog up after she had been approved for adoption.  As soon as she saw Marli’s face again, the dog lit up and wagged her tail, as if she knew Belle was returning for her.  In the car, the dog looked at the window and then back at her again.  Marli’s eyes were round and brown.  They were perfectly set in a sensitive face with a dark brown nose.  Her ears were covered in curls and framed her golden face like the wings of an angel. 

There was a symbiotic truth about the rescue that no one knew about.   In truth, Marli seemed to have a deep knowledge of Belle right away.  She understood Belle's moods and insecurities, even her lonliness.  Having a dog wasn't at all what she expected; Marli had a motherly love for her.  After work, Belle would come home to her companion and they would walk to Wonderful Chinese House or Subway, pick up dinner and then stroll around the park.  After their outing, they would return home and eat; Marli next to the water cooler, Belle on the couch.

Seasons came and went.  Belle’s mother got cancer, went through chemo and later died.  Marli was there to comfort and care for Belle’s devastated heart.  Ed appeared, romanced her, broke her heart and disappeared.  Marli saw her through it.  When she graduated from college with a second degree, Belle bought matching mortarboards so that she and Marli could take pictures for the Christmas card.  Trauma, heartache, happiness, joy , triumph..Marli was there for everything.

Belle had been so wrapped up in work lately that she hardly noticed the awful progression.  First, Marli spent too much time licking herself.  Next came the vomiting.  It was only when Belle found blood in the puddles she cleaned more frequently that she worried.  The vet later said that it would be best to “put her down” instead of postpone the inevitable. 

He said it quickly, knowing that Belle would have a hard time digesting the suggestion.  When she looked at Marli, she saw her eyes, red-rimmed, tired, and worn out.  She almost looked guilty for having to leave first. 

“When can you do it?” Belle asked, trying to sound calm.

“You can leave her here now,” the vet said, sympathetically. 

1:30.

Belle would have to shower soon; she had not slept for two days.  There were no sick days available for nurses grieving the loss of a dog.  If any of her colleagues lost a family member, there was grace for absence, but only if that family member was a person.   A collection would be taken among the nursing staff for flowers, or a card, just to show that they understood the grief and emptiness of saying goodbye when you weren’t ready.     

She turned on her back again. 

The hours were passing, but no rest was coming.  

midnight

It was ten minutes to midnight and Sergey Kostolov stood in front of a full length mirror, primping for his first shift at Abbeville General Hospital’s morgue.  He had dressed quickly in the doctor’s locker room, and now stood readjusting his nametag on his new doctor’s smock several times before he decided it was the most noticeable.  After spending months interning at crime scenes, medical record rooms, and finally in a hospital, Sergey was ready to take on the appointment of hospital coroner.  Abbeville was a small town in Louisiana, far from Slovakia, but it was his domain now. 

His.

Sergey lifted his sleeve and looked at his watch; it was nearly time for his shift to begin.  The Fossil watch was a gift from his wife, Chessy, a girl of nineteen who he tore from home to take with him as he immigrated to New York City.  She gave him the watch after he completed medical school; a day that was filled with awkward memories.  Chessy had interrupted class pictures to present him with a neatly wrapped silver box with a blue bow on top.  The class made appreciative noises, but Sergey chided her in Slovak.  “Wait until we’re finished!  Go stand there!  Do you see any other wives giving presents now?”

He regretted it as soon as he saw her wounded expression, but she obeyed him and took the box back and stood by the potted rubber plant.  The class returned to smiling for the multitude of cameras, under an awkward silence.  By the time everyone dispersed, Sergey realized the moment for opening the gift had passed and Chessy would never be happy no matter how thankful he was.

It was a beautiful watch, with a simple chrome casing and a dark blue face.  It had a second hand that travelled slowly around the Roman numerals, reminding him to get going.  Get working; get busy; get on with your life.

Chessy had chosen the perfect gift and he thanked her.  She kissed his cheek when he finally put it on and told him the story of the American mall where she haggled with the shopkeeper for a reduced price. 

It was now midnight. 

“Dr. Kostolov?” A voice from the doorway made Sergey jump. The receptionist, a small little man dressed inappropriately in doctor scrubs, was poking his head in the locker room; a turtle emerging from a shell. 

“Yes?”

The man pointed over Sergey’s head, at the large wall clock.  “It’s time for me to go.  Usually the doctor and I debrief for a few minutes.  Do you want to do that?”

Sergey nodded, scowling.  Who was this little man to rush him?  He was nobody, a dumb receptionist.  Back in Slovakia only a woman would take such a mundane job.  What was the meaning of this insolence?

Sergey followed  the little man into the wide open space of the basement morgue.  Here he was, a doctor. 

“Kostolov,” he heard the little man say as he walked to the desk.  “Is that Russian?”

Sergey rolled his eyes.  “No.”

Finally arrived, a doctor at his very first assignment; still being rushed by lesser men.  It was no different than Slovakia.  

No different at all.