What should I be doing right now? Trying to find a phone? Trying to borrow some money? I’ll need both if I’m going to escape….whatever this situation is.

My mind reels, trying to figure out exactly what I should be doing and feeling as I accept the scrubs from Percy with a grateful, “Thank you.”

But then I realize I'm missing a key item to make this outfit all the way decent.

My wedding dress had a bustier built-in—it’s one piece of practical value. But that meant that I didn't have a bra to wear underneath the scrub top.

“I don't suppose this Doc also has a bra I could borrow?”

“Yeah, she does, but I don't think it's going to fit.” Percy reaches into the locker and pulls out a bra that appears to be at least two or three cups sizes smaller than what I'd need.

“How about you?” I asked, glancing down at her barely contained breasts behind their two triangles of yarn. “You and I seem about the same size. Please tell me Hades allows you to wear bras.”

“Well, I can’t tell you that,” she answers. Her voice is a lifeless monotone. “But I can help you get out of that dress.”

She comes over and undoes the fastenings on the back of my dress.

Which I appreciate, but…

I glance at her as she makes quick work of the pearl buttons, way more concerned about her than getting out of the dress now. You can take the nurse out of the ER, but you can’t make the nurse not hear all the red flags Percy’s dropping about her relationship with Hades.

“Are you okay?” I whisper just in case there’s anybody else in this back room that I can’t see. “Do you need me to call somebody for you or get you help?”

“What could you possibly do to help me?” Percy asks, not bothering to match my whisper. “You came in here with Waylon. Him and Hades are the Ruthless Reaper presidents.”

“Yeah, but I’m not with him like that. I didn’t exactly come here of my own volition. And if you didn’t either, maybe we could help each other get out of this mess.”

Percy undoes the zipper under the pearl buttons then steps back to look at me, her eyes less lifeless and more assessing.

“Yeah, you definitely don't belong in this world.”

“What gave it away,” I ask, throwing her a wry smile. “The wedding dress?”

She lets out a little laugh, but it strikes me as a bit sad. And her next words don’t inspire me with much hope for my own situation.

“Just take care of yourself. If Waylon’s got you, you’ll probably have it almost as bad as me. Those two are total psychos. You know that, right?”