There were no XL scrubs left. Stuffing my legs into an L, my balance wavered when the floor nurse called a code grey over the intercom. I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my badge lanyard, and sprinted for the stairwell door.

Floor 3, suite H—Mr. Brunner.

The ruckus echoed down the yellow-painted brick stairwell. I scanned my ID at the top landing, pushed the bar, leaning against the heavy door.

A breeze whipped against my exposed ankles, and the scrub seams strained against my thighs as I ran past the row of closed doors to the source of the noise.

“I’ll kill you for this, you bitch!” Mr. Brunner had Tracy by her braid, feebly swinging it. “Give it back!”

My hand covered Mr. Brunner’s, prying his fingers from Tracy’s hair. His hand came away webbed with extracted strands.

“Can I help you find something, Mr. Brunner?” I asked, pushing his wrists down.

“That whore took my lamp. I can’t read here in the dark without my lamp!” Sweat collected in the deep lines of his face, beading and dripping from his hairless pate. The loose skin at his neck shook, scattering droplets.

Holding his wrists to his sides, I nodded toward the bedside table. “Is your lamp blue, Mr. Brunner? I see a blue lamp over there—maybe we moved it when we cleaned? Or let me get you settled by that nice bright window.”

“No—the leather one, with the brass. It was my father’s, from the war. It’s very valuable, and she took it.” He threw himself against me. I wrapped my long arms around him, careful not to squeeze.

The nurse raced into the room, blue gloves in place, flipping a syringe. I tightened my grip as she came up behind the old man and gave him the Ativan.

He writhed against my chest. My shirt split between my shoulders. He went limp. Squatting to scoop up his legs, the seams on my pants gave.

“For chrissakes,” Tracy said.

I carried Mr. Brunner to his bed and laid him down.

“Go home and do some laundry. Come back for second shift to make up the hours.” Tracy straightened her hair and picked up her clipboard. Her left eye twitched, her cheeks flushed. She flipped to a fresh incident report sheet and turned her back.

Back in the locker room, I pulled on my street clothes. I grabbed the canvas laundry bag on my way out.

The tattered too-small scrubs fluttered into the dumpster in the parking lot. No need to fill out a material damage report—Tracy would mention it in hers.

Folding myself into my Civic, I headed home, rubbing at the dark shapes floating across my tired eyes.

***