That was the worst thing. Because if he was wrong and they were innocent, then he might be able to keep his job. If nobody thought his questions seemed a little too nosy, and if nobody found him snooping around files he shouldn’t be snooping around. But if something serious was going on, then the plant would be shut down and he would lose the job, for sure. Life’s a bitch, isn’t it? All those goddamned ifs.

And after all that, after his decision to cooperate with Flint (and he had decided right away—was there any other way to go?), he had gone out to play the hero, and had ended up running in terror from nothing more than a shadow, and a dead cat.

Nothing more?

He sucked at the beer, and it softened his mind around the edges. He began to think more freely, images whirling and spinning across his sight. His daughter’s collapse, the house in the light of the setting sun, his hand held aloft and the blood running wetly down his wrist.

He lifted his hand and studied it for a moment. It throbbed dully, the pain digging into his palm and up his arm. He unwrapped the tape, then the gauze that covered the wound, tossing it onto the table in front of him. His palm was swollen, the wound in the center an ugly, red mass. He touched it, and found the flesh wet with infection.

That was it. The wood had been dirty, and he hadn’t washed the wound well enough.

But that was not exactly true. Helen had washed it for him thoroughly as soon as they unpacked that first day, and she had covered it with antibiotic ointment and clean gauze. It should have started healing by now.

He got up and made his way slowly to the bathroom where they kept the first aid kit, not bothering to turn on a light; the sunrise was softly lightening the windows. He put some new ointment on, wrapped his hand with new gauze and taped it securely. It continued to throb, pulsing against the bandage. The splinter must have gone much deeper than he had originally thought, and they had simply not gotten it clean. Still, it worried him. He didn’t like doctors’ offices, and this wound might send him to one if he wasn’t careful.

Back in the kitchen, he realized the beer was almost empty. Grabbing another one was tempting, but he let it pass and poured himself some orange juice instead, wincing at the sour, acid taste. You should have been wincing at that beer, he thought. But he felt better now, more relaxed, his nightmares forgotten in the light of a new day. His decision to talk to Flint was the right one. If somebody was hiding something, they were the ones at fault, not him.