It was a clammy hospital bed and the flowers were spent and faded. S leaned over to see if they had taken her roommate away but the duvet on the other bed was bunched up so she couldn’t really tell. She hadn’t heard anything from that side of the room in days but she could still feel some kind of presence over there. Human? It reeked. No medical staff had come for days but the machine appeared to be keeping S nourished for now anyway. Do they ever leave you alone in hospitals for this long? It seemed somewhat outrageous.

Her favorite thing to do was to walk through all the rooms in her father’s house and smell the onions he was frying in the kitchen, smell his pipe smoke in his study, listen for the creak of the stairs as she walked down to the sitting room. She would do this all day long lying in her hospital bed.

Other times she listened to the hum of the machinery. She would hone in on the sound and hours would pass. HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM…

There was a time when her day would start with an abrasive clang clang clang and she’d be in the shower, waking up before the sunrise. She’d go to the plant, put on her radiation suit, and flip switches and load carousels. Lunch she’s spend on her cellphone talking to Marty who worked in the plant adjacent.

Sometimes she’d stare at the carousel ten minutes and wonder if she’d already loaded it with radioactive isotopes. She had done the same routine so many times that she would forget she’d done it the second after completion.

—

There were no leaves on the trees outside the hospital now, which helped her remember winter was coming.

She wondered if her roommate was dead? Sleeping quietly? Did they sneak in and take her out in the middle of the night?

S sat upright, pulling all the tubes taut that went to the machine. All she saw over there was a big mound of duvet and pillows. But there could easily have been a person, underneath.

One by one she disconnected the tubes. They leaked and hissed as she swatted them all aside. She hung her white legs over the edge of the bed. Placed her feet on the cold linoleum. Walked unsteadily toward the other bed, pressing her gown close. When she was near enough she saw the dead body and, even though it was what she expected to see, she was still shocked.

So shocked that she didn’t go back to her own bed. She went to the hall. A hall that had been lit and lively with people when she first arrived and that was now dark and littered with fall leaves that must have blown in through a window somewhere.

The emergency lights were on and S stumbled ahead, determined to find another survivor.

Upstairs, at the end of the first row of files, sheets of paper so brittle from age and molded. The typewriter cut through on all the “o’s”, dirt, smears and smudges. But read some of the words there. Someone took vengeance with that typing machine. Someone kicked him when he was down.
 
But who’s going to find it? The whole building, these old files in paper boxes, the dry air. It will all turn into black dust with only nails and paperclips remaining. All that anger washed away by the rain after the fire, or sticking to the bottom of your boots.
 
Dig through the ashes and you might find a half-burned sheet way down in the black muck. Half a paragraph of vitriol and bitterness. It will still get you. Beyond his grave and even after a ruinous fire this guy will still get you. His words will hook into your pasty flesh like barbwire and rip it up a little. And when you try to run it will rip more. Just as you twist to free yourself it will dig deeper into your bloody ankle and pull you down, dragging you across the ash back into your own hate. Once that’s started you’re not the same. And the only way to free yourself is to start cutting…

In the soft light, under some trees in the amusement park Janie and Bill stood sweating in their wool suits. Her face was powder and fine creases and some chemicals to prop it up and hold it together. Her eyes were glazed over. But she started dancing to the piped-in music, started moving her hips, her cold expression unchanging. Bill stood there and looked out towards the tourists. Do you think he’ll show up this time? he asked.

Oh, he’ll show, Janie said. That’s the problem. She stopped moving and went at her phone, texting away. Bill stared at the side of her head like he was going to tell her something but his mouth didn’t open -it only twitched a little. He was a good ten years younger than her and coincidentally had just gotten his hair cut that morning.

When Peter finally arrived they were numbed both by the heat and the waiting and moved in slow-motion. He was on his way to the escalator: giant crown, robe flowing, looking like the perfect cartoon king. It’s Peter, Janie growled to Bill and they both shuffled in place. Meanwhile the king Peter was getting further away. Bill… Fucking–. And she pinched his arm hard, jolting him out of his stupor. Ow! I am! He now walked briskly toward the king, swinging his arms, with Janie following too closely. Peter!

The big king face turned, solemn expression, grey beard. The crown could not have been bigger and more bulbous on his head. Bill kept coming, now invading the king’s personal space. The king put hands on both of Bill’s shoulders to keep him back. Janie leaned in. What is this? Peter said.

He must have been prepared for them though. In 65 seconds he had slipped back into the crowd going down the escalator and Janie and Bill were stumbling around in circles. You fucked it up, Bill, Janie said. You moron. Bill paced around, glancing now and then at the king’s crown bobbing away from them through the throngs.

Shut up Janie! SHUT UP! Bill’s face had become an almost fluorescent, sweaty pink. He grabbed her shirt and leaned into her face. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! Security moved in, and a crowd formed. Some people even walked the wrong way up the escalator to get back into the commotion.

When the guards got up to Bill they had to pry his fingers from around Janie’s neck. On the pavilion below, Peter, the king, stopped and stared up, his benevolent kingly expression replaced with a grimace. His brow furrowed.

Janie leaned, gasping, over the railing, her shirt torn, her neck red and bruised. Their eyes met for a second before Peter took off running, robes flowing, pushing people out of the way. His crown fell off as he went around a corner and a little kid instantly picked it up. But the kid’s angry dad made him drop it.

Above, security guards and medics pushed in at Janie, all talking at once. She ignored the chatter, pointing down to the lower pavilion. She finally spoke, her voice quavering, Get… me… that… crown.