The new scrubs were itchy, starched for store-freshness and smelling like dust. I sat in the dark clinic room, watching the blipping lights of Mr. Brunner’s monitors, feeling the “do not resuscitate” orders clipped to the foot of the bed stare back at me. The new lamp I’d picked up sat in its box at my feet.

Rubbing my neck, trying to push the soreness out, warm blood rushed into the muscle behind the pressure of my fingers. Thirty minutes left. Then home, sleep for six hours, and come back.

I squeezed a tight muscle in my shoulder. Bright lights flashed in front of my eyes, then the negative, dark spots filling my vision. I pressed my fists to my eyes, opening them to solid dark. Undulating, freezing black clouds rolled around me, and a sharp ringing lanced my ears. Shrill sounds drove through me like knives as the dark wave turned me upside down.

My face hit the cold tile floor, jarring my vision back with a white-hot burst of light. Shoes pounded in front of my eyes, smelling like wet rubber and disinfectant. My hands slipped in my sweat as I pushed myself off the floor.

People filled the room, their backs to me. Above their heads, the monitor broadcasted Mr. Brunner’s distress signal, emitting the shrill alarms that had cut through me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I rubbed my hands over my face, painting it with salty wet that stung my dry lips. I backed out, watching them do next to nothing, making him comfortable as he passed.

At home, I spent the rest of the night apologizing to the shadow whispering behind my bedroom door.

***

I studied Mr. Brunner’s face. Leaning over him, staring closely at his temples and the bridge of his nose, I reached out and smoothed the cold wrinkles, inspecting the depths of the crow’s feet. There was one, two—another on the other side. I texted Dan and then zipped up the bag and rolled Mr. Brunner to the parking lot.

I strapped him down and loaded him up, securing the gurney to the van. Climbing into the driver’s seat, my coffee sloshed out of the spout of my travel mug.

Dan’s funeral home sat just down the road, built close enough to The Village for convenience, but not so close as to be suggestive. Dan waited for me outside, wringing his hands. A cigarette butt smoked on the crumbling pavement at his feet, torching the parched weeds growing up from the cracks.

“What took you so long?” He tugged at the back door, pulling the gurney down as I got out. “Hurry, get him downstairs.”

In the dark basement lab, leaning in, shining a light in Mr. Brunner’s face, we counted spots. Dan pushed and pulled at the skin.

“Gentle,” I said.

“What?” The corner of Dan’s mouth twitched. “Why, exactly?”

“I know him,” I said.