What Would Emma Lenford Do?

By Kari Lynn M

What would you do if you found a freshly deceased body in the middle of the woods during a routine community litter pick-up party? What about if your teacher crush-slash-field trip leader suddenly passed out at the wheel of a school bus while driving a herd of terribly unruly middle school students to an art museum for what should be a day of summer school enjoyment?

Well, Emma Lenford knows exactly what to do in these dire situations. She has to do the good, righteous, moral thing... whatever that is. And, perhaps, if she does at least ten good, righteous, and moral things, then maybe her unlucky life will start to turn around. Because battling good against evil always works out in the favor of good, doesn’t it?

Emma Lenford is truly the unluckiest 17 year old on the planet. She keeps her sense of humor, though, through this series of seriously ill-fated situations. Her life is basically a sit-com where one traumatic thing after another befalls her, and it's all out of her control. She's constantly kidnapped, held at gunpoint, and even arrested for things she honestly didn't even do.

Follow Emma in the third book that shows us all that, well, it could always definitely get worse, and figure out the answer to the age-old question, “what would Emma Lenford do?”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kari Lynn M
• Release date: May 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005443634

Kari Lynn M

Hey there!My name is Kari, if you didn't guess already, and I'm a writer (surprise!).I also enjoy long walks on the beach and sipping on piña coladas.Just kidding!I'm really just a... small town girl, I guess you could say, with a semi-functioning laptop and a dream. A dream of becoming a 'real' author, that is. Which, actually, I'm not quite exactly sure how that is defined, so when and how I'll reach it, if I do at all, I don't really know.However, I'm working extremely hard on my writing these days. As in, like, EVERY day. Even after a long day of other mental and manual work (I'm also a college student, artist, and frequent nanny), I have to add at least something to whatever story I've currently got in the works, otherwise, I physically cannot sleep. But, I do love writing—I really do. And, apparently, it must have a thing for me, too.Now, really, y'all should get to reading more important things than an exhausted 20-some-year-old wishful author's bio. More important things like... the books she's actually written!Happy reading, all you homedogs.--Kari

Book preview

What Would Emma Lenford Do?

Kari Lynn M.

Published by Kari Lynn M. at Smashwords

Copyright 2020 Kari Lynn M.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Miranda Deadly

Madamn

Kinderwarden

Over the Culver’s and Through the Woods

The Old Strokes Home

Cinderemma

Handsy

Alike

The Eels on the Bus

Deed Dating

Volunteershit

Bomb-a Mia!

Bonus Content

Other Books by Kari…

Connect with Kari!

Author’s Notes

Miranda Deadly

I truly believe she was a good person… 

I turned to my right and gestured a hand over the mahogany coffin halfway lowered into the ground beside me, where there were also three men in suits banging on the side of the lowering-machine-thing around it, and then continued. 

"Under all of that, you know… and maybe just at one time in the past, even if it was just an extremely short-lived time, when she did live, and before she did things that landed her a prime spot in the county penitentiary…"

I searched the crowd of eight strangers seated in metal folding chairs in front of me, then the figure of Stella Anderson, who was sitting in another one beside all of them, her glittery black pumps crossed atop one another and resting on one of the fifty other empty chairs in front of her, her arms crossed over the chest of her strapless black dress, and her face shielding the sunless clouds via her cat-eye black sunglasses, before my slightly-recently-made-acquaintance Reverend Chris Brown, who was standing beside me in all black and a white collar, stopped me. 

Now, Em, just a second… he said, holding out a bare, face-down palm; I looked over at him. You might need to speak up some more for the folks in back, there. 

He nodded as the sound of a metal hammer head smashing a metal something-or-other piped up from the other side of us. 

Right… I nodded back, then cleared my throat and faced forward once more. "Like I said, I think she was a good person! But—"

Wait, wait, the reverend stopped me, again, and then abruptly turned to run over to the group of dusty, parked vehicles on the other side of a few slanted headstones. 

I watched him approach a red Ford pick-up, open the driver’s side door, and rummage inside for a long moment before I glanced back at the three pallbearers working on my other side. I saw one hitting the metal standing around the casket with the hammer, one standing with just his hands on his hips, and the other jumping and stomping both his feet on top of the coffin itself. When he stopped to hop off, back up to my side, and look the whole rig over, though, I spoke up toward him. 

Maybe we should just cremate her, I commented. And, at least, that way, she’d really be gone… 

He chuckled a little, but then I felt a hand on my opposite shoulder, and I whipped toward it to see Reverend Brown beside me again, now holding out a plastic megaphone with Milwaukee Slayers embroidered on it in drippy red lettering. 

Um— I began. 

Good thing I always keep this in the truck, he cut me short, grabbed my right hand, and physically put the microphone device’s handle in it. That and my forensics kit always seem to come in handy…

I stared down at the megaphone a second, but when he let go of its top, I was forced to take up a grip on it by the base. And then I glanced up at his expression for another second, and he nodded to the crowd back on my left. I followed his gesture and looked over the nine audience members, of which four or five were asleep, since I couldn’t tell whether Stella’s eyes were still open behind her shades, and afterward lifted the device slowly up to my mouth. I felt for and pressed a button on the handle, emitted a screeching squeal of a sound, winced, let up on it, shook the whole thing a time or two, tried the button again, and then, finally, spoke. 

She was a good person, my voice crackly echoed out at a hundred-plus decibels. And I hold no grudges against her. I let off of the button a second, and then returned it. "Even though she was known for kidnapping me and giving me quite the incurable bout of PTSD." 

Suddenly, a loud creaking even shriller than the megaphone’s output levels piped up from my left, and I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the decorative wood casket collapse six feet into the hole below it; the men surrounding it also stared down in the pit for a second.

Well, I began, again, before pressing the squealing microphone button once again. She’s in a better place, now. I nodded back at the awakening crowd, nodded, let up on the button, and finished with a mumble. "Now that she’s down there…"

Chris began clapping his hands together on my other side. 

Amen, Em, he said, reaching out to take the megaphone back. You know, it takes one amazing person to forgive her like you just did, even after all she put you through. We faced each other briefly, but he quickly took up the ‘phone and used it to speak back to the already disbanding audience. God rest her soul! 

I watched as he then turned and sauntered back to his truck, all three pallbearers walked around me to get to their own vehicles, and all crowd members other than Stella stood to do the same. I, however, peered over at the deep, open hole still set in the ground, the broken lowering rig-thing still hanging from the top of the dirt around it. 

Are we just going to leave it like that so the evil can seep out into the atmosphere, or… I grumbled. 

Probably, a voice abruptly spoke from behind me, forcing me to jump, unfortunately, forward a tad. 

Though, don’t worry, a French-manicured hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back before I could nosedive into one of the many pits of hell; it’s too early for that amount of misfortune, anyway. 

Jesus, Emma, Stella spat out as I stumbled to spin around to her. You know they take her jewelry off before they put her in there, right? 

I regained my balance and took a few well needed steps away from the burial site. 

Yes, Stella, I replied, abstaining from any eye rolling. I wasn’t trying to go grave robbing; anything in that casket is cursed clear to condemnation, anyway.

Well, okay, Stella said from behind her sunglasses, taking a step backward, herself. We need to get going, though; I heard that the last person to leave a graveside service always gets haunted by the ghost first. 

I stepped up to her side as she spun around and began to wander off toward her green slug-bug across the row of tombstones and metal chairs ahead. 

Oh, you did, huh? I questioned, crossing my subtly hairy, bare arms in front of myself. You know, I’ve also heard that not all ghosts appear wearing white sheets, either. 

Stella stopped a few feet from her car and turned to me while she fumbled for her keys in her black leather handbag. 

"I know, Emma, she growled back. Sometimes they’re black, too. She glanced down as she whipped out a pound ball of multicolored keychains, threw her purse back over her shoulder, and then threw one index finger up in front of my face. Now, you wait until I get in, first." 

This time, I did not restrain myself from rolling my eyes and dropping my hands to my waist as Stella both unlocked and slipped in the driver’s seat. After that, I dropped my hands completely to my sides and stepped my mud-dried black flats on the dirt path in front of her mini coupe, but then involuntarily jerked my body to the side when Stella apparently punched her car’s horn for a split second. I grabbed at the front of my tank top and closed my eyes a moment, and then turned to smack her hood and make the rest of my way around to the passenger seat. 

Really? I grouched as soon as I got in. "Are you trying to put me into cardiac arrest, too?" 

I reached for the seat belt, pulled it across my front, and gave Stella a glance to see she was holding her hands up by her shoulders, glancing right back at me. 

I didn’t do that, Emma, she claimed, eyebrows raised over her glasses’ rims. I swear. 

I raised a brow back at her, holding my seatbelt at a hover above its clicker. 

God, you’re a bad liar, I said, pushing it in place and turning back to the front windshield. 

I think… Stella went on mumbling. "It was… her…"

I laughed a little and recrossed my arms. 

Yeah, and she must have thought I just had a ‘honk if you’re single’ bumper sticker taped to my ass, huh? 

No, Emma, Stella spat back, and I looked over at her once more to see she was pointing past my head. "Look…"

I narrowed my brows at her, but then cranked my neck toward the window on my right side. And then instantly screamed out. And then immediately ducked my head into my knees. 

"Jesus, Stella, drive, drive!" I shouted.

But Stella began to giggle, and then I glared up at her from behind the fingers slapped to my face. She slowed her amusement and pointed, again, past my right side. 

Don’t worry, Emma, she’s gone now, she claimed. 

I re-straightened my back and turned to look out of the empty, open passenger window… right as Stella, apparently, touched a button that rolled the window glass up, revealing that the smiling face of, guess who, Miranda, of which I had just attempted to ‘hide’ from, was actually just a facial cut-out printed on paper and taped to the inside of the window itself; Stella immediately burst out in laughter. 

"Ha, ha… I growled, now ripping the printed Facebook profile picture off of the glass. Good one, Stella, really, amazingly hilarious…" 

I turned back to her, crumpled the paper, and tossed it at her shaded eyes. 

Hey, Emma, she went on, trying to swipe the crackly ball away a bit too late. I’m just mentally preparing you, okay? 

I squinted a little at her. 

"For, uh… what?"

She grabbed at the gear shifter in between us and dropped it in reverse. 

For… she answered, and then slammed on the gas pedal. "This!"

She sent the car, containing the two of us, flying backward, though we abruptly stopped when she crashed into a cluster of headstones a mere point-twenty-two seconds later. 

For, I shouted back, grabbing the sides of my faux-leather seat before my head catapulted into the dashboard. "Throwing me into the hands of the grim reaper, too?"

Whoopsies, I heard her mumble as she put the car in drive instead. Well, they won’t mind, anyway… She began to speed ahead. No, Emma, I’m going to take you to, like, face your biggest fear!

I shook my head from her to the unnervingly, quickly approaching cemetery gates ahead. 

I have no idea what you’re talking about, I said. 

Just a few minutes, Emma, and you’ll see, Stella said, right as she reached for her radio player and proceeded to blast Maroon 5 louder than any rational vocal volume I could have possibly produced in that moment. 

So, then, I threw my back… back and stared at the sticky residue left behind by the tape on the window while Adam Lavigne sang about some girl other than me with a broken smile getting his love for, literally, only three minutes until Stella pulled into a parking lot for a large brick building that I was sure was over ten miles away from where we just were. 

Uh, Stella, I piped back up, leaning forward, my head now pointed back at her. This is the county hospital where I just had my appendix taken out a week ago… and, you know, my follow-up with Doctor Nonexistent isn’t until the twelfth Tuesday of next month. 

Stella rolled the vehicle past a row of white SUVs in front of the building’s automatically sliding front entrance, and then braked in an open parking spot across from them… which was also, luckily enough, surrounded on all sides by other empty spaces, which Stella also partially filled as she parked the car at a forty-five-degree angle tilt to the left. 

I know, Emma, she replied, shifting gears and turning to peer at me below her shades. "But… why else might we be here?"

I stared at her, eyebrows, as they usually are, narrowed. 

To raid the narcotics stash in one of the custodian closets? 

Stella tapped the edges of the steering wheel and shook her head slightly. 

No, Emma, she continued. "I mean… who… is in there right now?"

I raised a brow this time. 

Probably… I answered. A lot of surgical nurses and health insurance agents prying money away from people with dying family members. 

"And?" Stella pressed, leaning forward.

I searched her dark brown eyeshadow as she finally pulled her sunglasses off of her face. 

And… a lot of necrophiliacs hiding out in the basement morgue.

Stella sighed and fell back in her seat; she stared up at the closed sunroof that was completely colored in with black Sharpie. 

God, Emma, you’re even dumber than me at third semester calculus… 

"Just calculus?" I questioned. 

She rolled her head toward me with a glare upon her face. 

Well, I’m sure I’m smarter than you at a lot of things, but I wasn’t going to list them all out… because that would take, like, all weekend. 

I nodded. 

I’m sure, I stated. 

Stella nodded back, then looked through the dash, then glanced to me once more. 

Well, anyway, she went on. Third floor, room 303; that’s nine-hundred and… eighty-nine squared. 

I tapped a chipped fingernail on the armrest of the plastic door beside me. 

And why do we need to go to room nine-hundred and eighty-nine squared? I asked. 

"Oh, not we, she responded. No, no—I have a hair appointment at five." 

I squinted at her blonde curls. 

That’s in… I cocked my head to the side. "Uh, five hours."

Well, yeah, but… Stella flickered eyes between me and the car keys, which were still locked in and keeping the engine running. I have to eat something high in protein at least three hours in advance or else the chemicals from the hair treatments will lower my immune system. 

I glared at her a moment longer. 

Okay… But, you know, I’m sure there’s a burrito bar in the cafeteria in there.

I nodded at the building behind us.

Ew, Stella spat; I mean, literally, at least twenty droplets from her tongue flung across my face as she spoke. No, thanks, Emma; there’s barely any protein in refried beans, anyway. I let her continue as I wiped my wetted cheek. "Now… just go, okay? And remember what I told you before? Again, I let her finish while I sighed and slapped my hand down to my lap. This is the best chance you’re gonna get…"

I paused, and then, actually, nodded. 

You know what? I asked. It… I turned in my seat to look at the glass entrance not too far away, an elderly-aged woman in an oversized blue and white gown jogging out of it, a man in similarly-colored scrubs running behind her with a black wheelchair. Probably is. I looked back at Stella, who was tapping a sparkly white nail on the steering wheel. "I should… I should go in there. She nodded back at me. I should… take control of my own life, I mean, for once, right?"

Stella scrunched her shoulders up, puffed up her cheeks, and then sighed out a reply. 

Yeah. 

I pursed my lips. 

Yeah, I echoed her. "But… just because I should doesn’t necessarily mean I either want to or that I actually will, so… I looked at the front of the white SUV in front of us that looked crooked from our current point of view and crossed my arms. Let’s just go to Taco Bell for some real fake burritos and Baja Blasts instead." 

God, Emma, Stella growled out. "Just go!" 

I raised my brows over at her as she reached across my chest and threw my passenger side door out; she then delivered a surprisingly harsh push to my left upper arm. 

Go, go, go! she yelled, slapping at my pale arm hairs. 

Ow, god! I grouched back, soon enough turning to step onto the hot pavement under the tires outside. 

You’ll thank me later, Emma! 

I stood up, barely to the side of the door, before Stella reached even farther and pulled it shut behind me, though it still whacked at the side of my hip bone in the process. 

Oh, yeah, I will, huh? I questioned, turning back to the car as she also cranked the passenger window down a tad from her driver’s control panel. I bent over a little and continued to speak in the small slit. "And what if later never comes?"

Stella slid her shades back on and shot me a quick glance before dropping the car in reverse. 

I’ll come back for you after I get myself a Crunchwrap Supreme! 

Before I could even object to her, she roared the slug-bug backward, almost all the way to the pillars holding up the awning in front of the hospital entrance, and then made a sharp turn to continue forward and around the corner of sports utility vehicles surrounding me. After that, I sighed, and then I trotted across the way to get to the sliding doors ahead, where the man in scrubs mentioned before was standing nearby, struggling to keep the, also aforementioned, elderly and barefoot woman sitting still in the black wheelchair with a bunch of Velcro straps. I gave the two a glance as I passed, though neither of them did to me, and then entered the pretty much empty front lobby of the hospital, a blast of icy, conditioned air whipping my ratty hair back when I did so.

There were two young women chatting behind a tall, crescent-shaped desk, a row of seven padded, though extremely ripped, wooden chairs with splintering armrests sitting vacant ahead of them, and a 70-inch LCD television on the wall in front of all of them, which was currently blaring a CDC message out through its high-definition theatre-style sound system, rattling my arm hairs like the speaker section of a Best Buy. 

"And never insert a real, raw chicken cutlet in your bra," it rang out, dramatic whisking sounds following as a few bullet-point messages popped onto the tv screen, of which read ‘Salmonella does not come from salmon fish’, ‘It can cause the runs’, and "Chicken cutlet bra inserts should never be made of real chicken’, respectively. So, let’s remember the common foods that salmonella can be found in… The screen flipped to a plain blue background with another loud sound effect. Beef, eggs, turkey, chicken, and hazelnut spreads! The letters B, E, T, C, and H each bounced onto the screen as the voice spoke. Now, let’s betch-slap salmonellosis!

I looked away from the tv as it let out a gong-banging sound, and then approached the desk area as both of the women sitting there abruptly stopped talking and glanced up at me. 

Are you here to fill the Coke machines? the red-headed one asked. 

I stopped in front of them and shook my head. 

Uh, no, I said. I’m just… looking for room three-oh-three. I flickered my eyes from the redhead to the brunette, who was staring at me, chewing on her thumbnail. Which is… probably just on the third floor, right? So, I’ll just—

Fourth floor, actually, the redhead stopped me, nodding and widening her eyes. Take the elevator, head up, and turn left when you get out. 

No, the other woman interrupted. "Three-oh-three is on the right."

They looked in between each other. 

Not unless you step out backwards, it isn’t, the redhead snapped. 

You mean only on opposite day, the brunette growled, and then cocked her head to one side. "Which it isn’t."

I’ll find it, I shot out, causing the two to snap each of their raised, plucked-thin eyebrows toward me. Don’t worry; thanks. 

I nodded and turned to the side. 

Wait! the one with the red hair stopped me, and I twisted slightly back to see her rummage through some papers on the desktop. Since you’re heading up there… She gave me a smile as she ripped a manila folder out to hold in my direction. Can you give this to the nurses’ desk? It’s for Doctor Anders. 

I stood still and glanced from the thick folder to her expression. 

Um, I started. I… wouldn’t that be a, uh, confidentiality breach or something? 

No, she replied, still reaching the paper stack out. "I have confidence in you." 

I pursed my lips. 

"Yeah, well, me too, but, you know, I actually meant that… aren’t I not supposed to handle medical files unless I’m, um, a certified medical practitioner?"

Both girls giggled out at my comment, and the redhead momentarily retracted the folder. 

You, she persisted, still laughing pretty hardily. "You think either of us are ‘certified medical practitioners’?" 

She flipped a thumb between the two of them, and I just kept still, still. 

Well, I— I began. 

"Well, I did take CPR classes at the Y last year," the brunette butted in, immediately stopping her amusement with the situation. 

The redhead rolled her eyes over at her. 

You dropped out of them after the second day, she said. 

"No, I did take all of them; I just didn’t have enough money for the certification!" 

Oh, please, you don’t even know what CPR stands for. 

The brunette woman leaned forward to snap back at her counterpart. 

"Yeah, I do. It means controlled protection and restoration."

"Yeah? the other chuckled out, leaning back in her squeaky swivel chair. Controlled protection and restoration of what?"

"Controlled protection and restoration of the body! the dark-haired one held her hands up by her shoulders and shook her brown locks a little as she spoke. Duh!"

The woman opposite her rolled her eyes, again, but then leaned forward, and I blew out a deep breath as she continued back. 

"Then why wouldn’t they call it CPR-B?"

Actually, I piped up, forcing the two to shoot their raised eyebrows over to me once more. It’s cardiopulmonary resuscitation. 

The speakers to the lobby tv, which were pumping out a Pitbull song instrumental over an allergy relief medication commercial, suddenly fell to silence, leaving an uneasy quiet in between the three of us while the girls behind the desk stared at me for a good ten-plus seconds. 

"Mm, the brunette shook her head at me. I don’t think so…"

Oh, shut up, the redhead snapped at her, again, then looked up at me and pushed her chair back slightly. You know, you can just go on, sorry; I’ll take up the folder once I get my legs on… 

I narrowed my brows at her.

Your… I began to question, but then saw her drop the folder, lean forward, and snatch up two long sticks of plastic with Sketchers sneakers attached to them at the ends. 

I watched as she pushed her chair farther back, revealing two round stumps of skin right above her knees and a little below the hem of her denim skirt. After that, she pulled her two prosthetic legs up to rest on the edge of her seat, and then pulled the straps of one of them up to her left thigh. 

Oh, you always take too long, the brunette commented, pushing her own chair aback. I’ll do it. I looked over at her while she, actually, raised up two metal crutches from under the desk, dug them in under her arms, and then stood herself atop them. Who needs legs, anyway? 

I lowered my eyes to her thighs, which both stopped, also, right above her knees. I raised my brows and opened my mouth but did nothing more before she swung herself forward and jumped both crutches a step ahead, still behind the desk. She then reached one buffed and manicured hand out to the folder in between us, though she struggled to get her fingertips within two inches of it. 

Oh, uh, I blurted out, shooting my own hand out to pick it up and extend it toward her. 

Now, don’t do this, again, you always trip up the stairs! the redheaded woman yelled at her. 

I’m not going to take the stairs, today, the other woman said, now grabbing at the edges of the papers. 

However, right before I was going to release them to her, a loud squeak sounded out from under her, her right crutch splayed out to the side, and she dropped completely to the floor, out of my sight. 

Oh, god, I jerked out, instantly widening my eyes. 

"Oh, god," the redhead groaned, rolling her eyes. 

Is she, I began, still holding up the folder, looking from her to the desktop and raising my voice. "Are you okay?"

"Ow…" the woman now somewhere under the desk grouched. 

She’s fine. The redhead grabbed my attention back. 

I watched her as she continued to pull on her prosthetic leg, throwing the foot of it up on the lower part of the desktop as she did so. However, almost right after she slammed the rubber bottom of the sneaker connected to it down on top of a heap of papers, the metal bar forming the ankle of the leg sprung loose, and the metal leg itself split in two; her head pummeled forward, and she had to grab at the edges of her chair to keep herself from crumbling to the floor like the two halves of the leg now were. 

Well, now look what you did… the brunette commented from out of sight. 

Suddenly, the stereo system behind me started up a heavy metal tune, and then the woman in front of me dropped her forehead into her hands and let out a sound of frustration, barely audibly, underneath the song. 

You know, I started to yell over the music toward her. I’ll just… go on and take this up for you. 

The redhead threw her head back, slapped her hands together in prayer position, and then grinned a little at me. 

Thank you… very much! she shouted back. 

I nodded. 

No… problem! 

I then stepped back, lowered the folder to my side, turned, and took off down the long hardwood floor that stretched far behind them. I stepped past a sign that pointed an arrow left, down another corridor, with both the words ‘EMERGENCY’ and ‘RESTROOMS’ printed on it, though I assumed that they were referring to two separate areas of the building, and a man in a tie and lab coat napping on a sofa with wooden armrests. After that, I stopped under a bright green sign that read ‘ELEVATOR’ on it, twisted right, and slapped the ‘up’ arrow beside a set of tall metal doors. Immediately, they opened, and I walked into an empty, tiny space full of flickering LED lights and chipped wood railings. I turned back around, looked at the next set of buttons, which stretched from ‘1’ (which was accompanied by a gold star sticker) to ‘4’, and promptly smacked the latter-mentioned. Once the doors closed in front of me, I tapped the manila folder against my hip in time with the marimba playing over the elevator speakers until they re-opened and revealed a world of blinding white lights, floors, and walls. 

I stepped out, looked left, and saw a bald, elderly man in a blue-dotted gown and floppy, oversized blue socks, pulling an IV stand up to a closed door a few feet away. He stopped once he reached it, threw two fists up, and turned to pound on it, revealing to me the apparent fact that he had no undergarments on under his attire in the process of his motions. 

Hey, Carol! his voice squeaked out. I got some extra cherry Jello-O if you want a bite of it! 

I then turned to the right, saw a circular desk area nearby in a wide, open area, and rushed up to where a different redheaded lady in pink breast-cancer-ribbon-adorned scrubs sat behind a large Dell monitor screen. 

Um, I started as I stepped up to the side of her computer, looking slightly down at her from the other side of the desk. I have a, uh… I brought the folder up to the side of my face. This to deliver, I guess, to—

Maternity ward is on floor two, she shot back, not once looking back at me, her eyes instead glued to the screen in front of her behind a pair of wide reading glasses. If you’re in labor. 

I paused as the old man down the hall shouted and banged on the same door again. 

I’ll even trade you if you got strawberry! 

No, sorry, I mean, I picked back up, lowering the folder. I’m supposed to give this to the, uh, doctor… 

Which doctor? the nurse asked, still not looking once at me. 

Doctor… I said, pausing to look down, turn to the side a bit, crack open the top of the folder, and peek at the first page inside, which happened to be a medical record for ‘Rachel Jenkins’, who had an intense history of ER visits relating to ‘foreign objects lodged in rectum’, and also happened to be recorded by a doctor named ‘Ken Anders’. Doctor Anders. 

I shut the folder and nodded up at the nurse. 

He’s in a surgery right now, she said, clicking away on her keyboard. 

Okay, I began back. Well, can I—

I stopped when the man yelled out once more. 

C’mon, Carol! Even lime wouldn’t be bad! 

I cleared my throat. 

Could I just leave it here for him? 

The nurse tucked one strand of long hair behind one ear and pushed her chair back some. 

No, I’ve got too much crap laying around here as it is… She trailed off, and then glanced up, not to me, but to the man slightly down the hall. Jerry, leave her alone; she just gave birth, for crying out loud! 

I narrowed my brows as she began to stand. 

I thought you said the maternity ward was— I said, before she held a finger up toward me. 

Not that kind of birth, she growled, I assumed at me, even though she never gazed my way, right before she turned and stepped out from around her desk. After that, though, she snapped her finger and walked around my side. "Come