Chapter Two

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The next two weeks dragged, but were otherwise unremarkable. Ian painted. Sara did whatever a paralegal did. John spoke with Mr. Bradley and replaced the hot water heater. Ritchie complained about anything and everything, and did so frequently as possible.

Even the longest eternity has an end, though, and today Ian sprang from the bed in anticipation of the first day of his new job. He showered and shaved, as he dressed he reflected on his uniform: he had worn this uniform privately, cherishing it, but today he was putting it on for real. For a moment, the tangle of pride, anticipation, trepidation and other feelings that he couldn't name almost overwhelmed him. It seemed a miracle he didn't laugh or cry out loud and wake Sara, but he mastered the impulses and slipped into the kitchen to join Mynx for breakfast.

As he ate, he glanced at the microwave oven' s clock: 7:14. Ian was right on schedule to arrive at his old job at five minutes to eight. His new job began at quarter to ten. He lingered over his coffee.

When he was still there at 20 minutes to eight, Mynx crept from her perch on Ian's feet to sit beside him and look up at him. "Different job today," Ian told her she balanced on her rear paws and stretched her fore paws up to his thigh. “Yow," she said, "Yowwryow.”

Ian shook his head, but Mynx ran off to the front door to sit there and yowl. Ian followed her. "You're going to wake up Sara," he said, picking the cat up and sitting down on the couch with her. Mynx worked her way free of his grasp and returned to the door, spent several more minutes reminding Ian of schedule, and finally resigned herself to glaring at him from atop the television set. Eventually she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Half an hour later Ian heard the water run in the shower. He moved back to the kitchen and ran the coffee maker again. Soon he heard Mynx's greeting and Sara's familiar step, and then Sara herself appeared.

"Good morning," he said, handing her a mug of coffee across the table.

"Good morning," she said, putting down her empty coffee mug some minutes later. Sara did not excel at mornings, particularly before coffee. Now, with a mug of coffee inside her, she noticed Ian's uniform. "Today's the day," she observed.

Ian nodded. "Yeah. To-today," he said. "Today's the day," he repeated, "today's the day. It'll be fun."
Sara looked at him several times as she ate, but said nothing. "Have a good day," she said, when she had washed the dishes. She kissed him, then left the kitchen, and soon after Ian heard her leave the apartment.

After a time, Ian stood to do his own dishes, saw that Sara had done them, and returned to the bedroom. Today his skills would be evaluated not by instructors or exam proctors, but by his partner and his patients. He searched through the bag he had carefully packed last night to see if everything was still there, but the confines of the bag hampered him, and finally he jumped everything out onto the bed. Every screwup, every blown IV or missed question on an exam haunted him as he repacked the bag: stethoscope; the folded photocopy of his assignment letter (the original was for too valuable to carry); directions to the station house, also folded; his copies of the state and city EMS protocols; two ballpoint pens and small notepad. He felt his pockets for his wallet and keys. His cell phone went into its holster at his hip. A folded map of the neighborhoods he'd be working in went into a side pocket of the bag. No, he decided, the neighborhood map lacked the immediate importance of the directions. He swapped the two, moving the directions to the side pocket and placing the neighborhood map in with everything else.

What else? His watch: he checked that it was still running (it was, of course), and strapped it onto his wrist. What else? He stared at the pile of belongings that remained on the bed. Trauma shears: into the bag. Discman with headphones and CDs: what were the chances that he'd use them? He left them sitting in the bed. Penlight: into the bag. Mini-Mag? Did he need both? He could always just leave it in the bag: he tossed it in. What else? What else, he asked himself. Nothing else. He zipped the bag closed, moved the items that remained on the bed over to his dresser, and carried the bag to the front door, using it to block the door shut so he wouldn't forget it as he left.

Now he was ready. He looked his watch: 8:20, sat down the couch, and turned on the TV. Every 10 minutes he checked his watch: 8:22, 8:25, 8:27, 8:30.

The program on the television changed, but Ian didn't notice. Mynx awoke from her nap on top of the television, saw him still there in spite of the late hour, and stalked off to the bedroom.

8:33. Ian realized that he was not watching the television programs so much as he was staring through the television set, and he turned it off. He checked the contents of his bag. He checked his bag again, dumping it out on the floor and repacking it. He brewed a cup of coffee in the kitchen, realized he didn't want it, and poured it down the drain. 8:39.

In the living room again, he turned the television on, flipped through perhaps five channels, and turned it off. He pulled the directions from his bag and read them twice. Yes, he decided, in agreement with his calculations of last night, to arrive at 9:45 he needed to lead by 8:55. Thirteen minutes to go.

“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps I should bring the Discman.” Various arguments for and against presented themselves. Would he have the time? Would the Discman get damaged? Would blood spill or spatter onto it? On the other hand, the music would relax him. Certainly he needed to relax.

8:45. Having reached no solution for his Discman problem. Ian abandoned the issue and left the Discman where it was. In the kitchen he washed his coffee mug from earlier, tripped over Mynx and emptied the still warm grounds and to the trash. Mynx crossed to her water bowl, drank, and left. Ian sighed.

8:49, and as he checked his watch, Ian heard what he thought sounded like thunder. He crossed to the window. Clouds covered most of the sky; they were high, white, and innocent, but he noticed that they were blowing from the part of the sky that was blind to the apartment.

Several pedestrians walked down the sidewalks, one or two cut across the street. No one carried an umbrella or looked up at the sky. In the building across from him an old woman watered her flowers. Probably just a truck.

"Time to go," Ian said aloud. He looked at his watch:8:53. In the front closet he found his uniform jacket and put it on. He collected his bag and, after making sure that Mynx was not poised to escape, left the apartment.

He had hardly turned his key to lock the door when he turned it again to reenter the apartment. He crossed to the bedroom, shoved the Discman and CDs into his bag, and was leaving for real when he heard the unmistakable rumble of thunder. Just as he reached the living room window, the first drops of rain fell against the glass: big, wet, heavy. “If I were superstitious person,” he thought, “this would definitely be a bad omen.”

With the usual cat precautions he opened and closed the door and left for work, rushing to get there on time (the irony of rushing after waking up so early was not lost to him,) and parking under a "Fire Department Personnel ONLY" sign just as the dashboard clock read 9:45.

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