When the girl reaches to help her up, Rose bats her hands away. The child’s face crumples as if she might cry. Rose hardens her heart. Hand in her pocket, clutching the purloined scissors, she waits for Karen, the cola-loving nurse.

The girl turns to the leaning lady. Ms. Tilted allows herself to be helped up and, zombie-like, is led away.

Karen arrives, towering over the sofa, blotting out the light. Rose’s heart is pounding so hard, she is scared the nurse will hear it. Amped up as she is, Rose is amazed Karen doesn’t feel the anxiety pulsing through her as she grasps Rose’s upper arm and helps her to her feet.

Jittering with nerves, Rose has difficulty moving slowly, with the demeanor of a bovine mind. Not jumping out of her skin is hard. They turn from the hall into her room. Rose threads her thumb and forefinger through the handles of the scissors in her pocket.

Let the games begin, she thinks, then nearly giggles. This is insane.

Don’t think about it.

Karen maneuvers Rose expertly until her back is to the bed. “All you got to do is bend your knees, sweetie, and you’re there,” she says.

Instead of sitting, Rose pitches forward, throwing her arms around Karen’s neck as if for support. The scissors are tight in her right hand, blades aiming downward.

“Whoa!” the nurse mutters, stepping back a little. Rose holds the neck of Karen’s scrubs with her left hand. Rose is shaking, time is playing tricks, the light seems to pulse and fade. The hand with the scissors wavers as she struggles for a good position from which to strike.

“I’ve got you,” the nurse says. “You’re okay.” Hugging Rose with her meaty arms, she mashes Rose’s face against her chest. Neatly, Karen waltzes her back to the edge of the bed.

The surgical grab-and-slice Rose had envisioned is in reality blind fumbling.

Karen lowers her until Rose’s bottom is securely on the mattress. “There we go,” the nurse says, laying Rose back on the bed. Desperately Rose releases her grip on the scrubs and clamps a hand on the nape of the nurse’s neck, clinging like a monkey. Fingers not trapped in the handle of the scissors scrabble at the woman’s flesh.

“What’s gotten into you, Ms. Dennis? This is as bad as putting a three-year-old to bed.” The nurse bends over, lowering Rose to the pillow.

Then Rose has it! The strap is hooked over her left thumb. Scissors in position, she cuts down. The nurse lets go of her. Rose falls the last three inches, arms crossed on her chest. Immediately she rolls onto her side and curls up in the fetal position, terrified by her crime—terrified that she’s actually done it, and terrified that she’ll be caught.

Silence.