“Some old anthropologists in Asia mention something like it, and in other places where they don’t embalm or bury or burn the dead. They called them evil spirits, and started burning the people alive at the faintest hint of hallucination.

“We soak our dead in chemicals, infuse them with toxins, and stick them in the ground—hardly ever get to see what grows when we leave well enough alone.” He squeezed the man’s jaw and pulled down on his chin. The scent of raw meat and blood rose from the pale mouth.

“Damn,” Dan said. “He didn’t just bite his tongue off, he chewed it. Look.” He wrenched the neck, aiming the blank face at me. A thin black line of old blood trailed from the corner of the mouth, running over Dan’s thumb and dripping onto the table.

***

I drove back to The Village, hands shaking on the wheel, pressing my chin to my chest to get a better view through the narrow tunnel of my vision. My scrubs stuck to the sweat on my back and legs. My skin secreted a slippery puddle in the vinyl seat of the van. The plan to stop for lunch on my way back was trashed. I couldn’t get out of the van like this. It’d look like I’d wet myself.

The van’s parking space sat close to the back entrance of the clinic. I could sneak into the locker room and change, grab lunch in the dining room with Miss Bessley, who could tell me, again, about the dog she’d had when she was eight.

As my sneakers squeaked across the white tile threshold, Tracy walked by, her slate hair pulled back in a braid, the edge of her clipboard pressed against her stomach as she read and walked. The walkie-talkie velcroed to the shoulder of her scrub jacket crackled and beeped, her left eye flinching each time, deepening the grooves that branched across her temple.

“Tracy.” She stopped and looked up. Looked me over. I’d forgotten about the wet. “Do you know when those school kids are coming back—the ones with the dogs? Do you remember if they have a collie, like Miss Bessley’s?”

“Who? What are you talking about?” She looked back to her notes, scribbling across charts.

“The group with the therapy animals, are they coming back soon? Miss Bessley’s been lonely, and I thought—” I picked at the damp fabric clinging to my chest, chafing my neck.

“I wouldn’t know, ask the desk.” She drew her eyebrows down. “But change your clothes first.” She hurried away, her braid swaying, slapping each hip in turn.

In the locker room, I stripped off my damp scrubs and dropped them in the canvas laundry bag, and held my underwear under the blow dryer.