My first overnight shift at the Kevorkian clinic was dark. Jane was from Kenya. Jane wasn’t her real name. She was old. She was strong. She had a face like a balloon, filled with cement. She didn’t smile much. We cleaned the patients, gave them their medication, stuck them in their beds. We slept, even we weren’t supposed to.
“No one is in danger,” Jane told me. I didn’t agree, I didn’t disagree. I was tired. I slept. In the morning, Jane put on the gospel channel. She said “amen” a lot. We prepared breakfast.
“Go wake Patrick,” she said. I found him in bed. He had down-syndrome, but was asleep like anyone else. He didn’t want to get up.
“No, David!” he cried at me.
“My name isn’t David, Patrick.”
“David, go away!”
I sighed and left.
Jane was in the kitchen.
“He won’t get up.”
She chuckled as…
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