“You know, I’ve seen that Grim Reaper thing in other rooms,” Chelsea said. “It’s so creepy. The hospital should ban it.”

“I don’t know.” Vera shook her head, the ends of her hair brushing her shoulders. “But the shrine is technically religious expression, so the hospital can’t suppress that.”

“It’s the Angel of Death in a freakin’ hospital. How is that okay?” Chelsea raked her blond hair, pulling long strands loose in her fingers.

“He also, kinda, threatened you,” Samantha added, stealing another carrot as Chelsea swatted her hand.

“Technically, he said it wants me. I’m not sure if that’s a threat,” Vera corrected.

“Well, what’s it? Is it his it? Like, his wrinkled old it? Because that’s sexual harassment,” said Chelsea.

Samantha scrunched her nose, disgusted. “And what about the other stuff he said?”

“Some of it I swear I’ve heard before.” Vera chewed her cheek.

“Yeah, in your nightmares.” Chelsea huffed. “Don’t worry—if you complain, we got your back.”

She and Samantha didn’t live in Roaring Creek. This made them the two people in Vera’s life who didn’t know about her parents’ work, so they treated her like a human being.

“He could have been hallucinating. Maybe it was the drugs from surgery? Or an allergic reaction?” Vera suggested. Typically, Mr. Gonzalez was a smiling old man telling tales of Mexico. He seemed young for his age, strong even.

But she couldn’t conceive of a medical reason for his voice dropping, his mouth decaying, and his pupils swelling right in front of her. She could, however, think of another explanation, a darker one.

I’ve spent way too much time in my parents’ world. Mr. Gonzalez is just sick and the doctors will figure it out.

“All I know is the hospital better take this seriously, because I feel like too many patients are coming in here high out of their minds or completely possessed,” Chelsea griped.

Vera’s eyes shot her way. Hearing the word possessed beyond the confines of her home was like hearing a trying-too-hard politician use eighth-grade Spanish: it might be technically correct, but it didn’t sound right.

“I think he just misses his wife. They were married for over fifty years. Now he’s sick, alone, and grieving,” said Vera.

“We’re all grieving something,” said Samantha. “Speaking of which.” She pulled a hardback book from her backpack with a bright yellow cover featuring an amateur design Vera was pretty sure she could duplicate in Word Art. The large typeface read The Sunshine Crew. “Look what my mom dragged home.”

“Ugh.” Chelsea rolled her eyes.

“I know they’re odd.” Samantha wiggled. “But she’s been looking for the right support group ever since Brian, and this is helping.”

Samantha’s older brother died of an overdose last year. He was twenty-six. During the funeral, people kept muttering how he was “too young,” and Vera watched as Samantha ground her teeth. Working in a hospital meant they were constant witnesses to the lack of sand in the hourglass. Life was always too short. If you miscarry a baby, you wish you could have at least held him. If you rock your daughter to sleep before she passes, you wish you could have seen her first day of school. If you lose your son after graduation, you wish you could have gotten to dance at his wedding. If your daughter dies as a young woman, you wish you could have gotten to meet your grandkids. And on and on and on it goes. They were always too young.