As the med-room comes into view, my pace falters. I glance up at the security camera and offer a small, forced smile for Sharona, the guard posted tonight. My quiet accomplice.
For a third of whatever I slip out with, she wipes the right minutes from the CCTV.
Guilt eats me alive, but so does the fear of the watchers on shift. They’re nothing like Sharona.
Months ago, one look at the two men stationed here told me how pointless it would be to ask for a favor or even try to bribe them with my stash. They make a sport out of glaring at me and the rest of the cleaning crew, as if they’re better than us.
They aren’t. They’re just people, and people are inherently flawed.
Jeremiah, the one on duty tonight, has a weakness: he sleeps around with a few doctors, depending on the day. I don’t judge him. Not at all. In fact, I’m grateful for it, since most nights, around the time I clock out, he slips off to one supply closet or another to get his fill.
From where I’m standing, today doesn’t seem all that different.
I crouch near the window and pretend to scrub a stubborn spot on the wall, sneaking a quick look through the glass, then scanning the hall.
All clear.
With a relieved sigh, I shove the damp rag into one of the pockets of my gray cleaning-company uniform. My hand drifts to the tight bun, patting my hair nervously.
I really hate stealing.
I hate Barclay’s pain even more.
Deep breath.
Go.
I’m gripping the bobby pins I keep in my uniform, about to take them out so I can break in there, when I freeze.
Someone’s cologne, faint and out of place, rides the air for half a second, then it’s gone. Panic sends me on high alert. I look around, making sure I’m alone.
I am. Of course I am. I double and triple-checked, didn’t I?
“You did,” I murmur and pick the lock to the room first, then the cabinet.
After tucking an orange bottle into the pocket of my uniform skirt, I tiptoe my way out of the med room. Heading down the back hallway toward the staff lockers and time clock, I punch my card, get my coat and bag from my locker, and head to the security room.
“Thanks, E.” Sharona pockets the pills I pass on to her before returning to FaceTime with her husband. “Night.”
“Goodnight,” I say to both of them, and leave.
The crisp fall night air welcomes me outside the sliding doors before the breeze whips at me, a lock of my hair breaking free from my neat bun.
I ignore it, hug my overcoat close, bow my head, and rush to the train station. The entire walk, I’m praying I won’t get jumped at this late hour. So far, nothing’s happened, but you never know. Anything’s possible when it’s dark, and the streets of Manhattan are nearly empty.
If not for our ruined reputation, I would’ve never worked here. I would’ve stayed closer to home because Cobbledale isn’t just safer, it’s gorgeous.
As a kid, I’d hang out with my friends, appreciating the late-summer sunsets, the spring blossoms. The golden and red leaves of fall and the snow during the winter, I enjoyed them too, whether it was three in the afternoon or close to midnight.
Now, I can’t. Thanks to?—
Don’t you dare blame your brother for it. It was your job to look after him, the ghost of my mom’s voice reproaches.
Tears well in my eyes. I blink them away and quicken my pace.
Thankfully, I make it to the train unscathed.
After I take my seat, I try to focus on the hands in my lap and not let guilt or regret pull me under. But with the echo of the promises I made to Mom and the constant longing for something that’ll never happen, I fail.
