"Why?"

"He weighs 300 lb.! I can't lift him," she shrieks.

I'm supposed to be in control here, but that flash of powerlessness never goes away. Unless you're Les and then nothing bothers you because your soul oozed out of your pores years ago and that ma.s.s in your chest formerly known as a heart is now nothing more than an algae-encrusted river rock. With boogers.

"Linda, did he take any drugs tonight? Did he drink anything? Anything I can tell the medics so they'll know how to help?"

"Umm ... v.i.a.g.r.a. And some scotch. It's Batman night ..." Linda starts to cry.

Despite the fact that Batman night is over-abruptly-I feel bad for Linda. "I want you to put the phone down and try to do chest compressions."

"But the chest plate-"

"Work with me, Linda. He'll forgive you for wrecking the costume if you save his life. Okay?"

The rest of the call does not go any better. I do hear later, however, that Batman Jerry (deader than a fruit bat in the vegetable aisle) had a stiffy that would make Zeus jealous. Details I don't need. Note to the world: v.i.a.g.r.a + scotch + heart condition = dead with a b.o.n.e.r.

That disgusting feeling of I just listened to somebody die washes over me. It's gross. Been at this job for two years, eight months, sixteen days, since disappointing my union-loving nurse father-yes, my dad is a nurse, so get your jokes out of the way now-and leaving school early secondary to questionable financial management. I am the only person in the family who faints in the presence of blood, an unending source of ribbing at those insipid annual family gatherings. Whatever genetic predisposition to medicine that runs like plague through my family? Yeah. It skipped me. Working 911 was the easiest compromise-I sit in a room and listen to blood, but I never actually have to see it.

But dead people never get easier, especially the ones who are already dead when the call starts. Aneurysms. Heart attacks. Strokes. Embolisms. Mother Nature is a clever, clever girl.

I lean back in my chair and slurp on the remnants of a long-ago melted iced coffee. Les is staring, those beady little eyes fixed on me. I know he's going to do it when I see his hand move to the chest pocket of his ugly brown flannel b.u.t.ton-down. The mothb.a.l.l.s and Old Spice piggyback a puff of recycled air.

I shake my head no.

Don't do it, Les. Don't pull it out.

He does. The Black Book of Death. He's going to put a G.o.dd.a.m.ned checkmark next to my name. Again. To show that I've killed someone else.

It would be funny if he weren't such a raging, infected p.r.i.c.k. Little stooge goes into advisory board meetings every two months and pulls out that confounded book to gloat about how many lives he's saved, and how many I've lost. He doesn't mark down Troll Lady's dead people, but I suspect it's because she's playing his skin flute in the unis.e.x bathroom during their lunch break.

I'm not sure what disgusts me more: watching Les pull the greasy black comb out of the back pocket of his Wranglers to straighten the twelve hairs still sticking out of his head, or thinking about Troll Lady's smudged red lips wrapped around his member.

It's a tossup. I feel sick to my stomach.

I'm now twelve minutes into overtime. I will be reprimanded if I reach the thirty-minute mark-"Budgets are tight! Cuts are coming!"-the same war cry from administrators who make six fat, beach-house-owning figures a year. Sorry. Batman died. What was I supposed to do, tell his Catwoman to call Robin for help?

The tiny vacuum starts up. My signal to go home. Troll Lady is aggressively rearranging her collection of frizzy-haired beasts, using the handheld vacuum to suck the dust free and keep their multihued coifs at attention. Because she's been here the longest-pretty sure she started with 911 when they were still using pterodactyls as messengers and Flintstone cars for ambulances-she gets away with s.h.i.t that would never fly for anyone else. I've heard that people have lost their jobs over complaining about her troll collection, the dust it collects, the simple fact that they're horribly ugly, despicable little demon spies for the CIA. She compromises by keeping the troll army small and dusted daily.

"This one, my pride and joy. Elvis. I spent $400, not including shipping. Straight from Graceland! I'll bet Priscilla touched it. Wouldn't that be something?" I try not to listen, but she is loud. Really loud. And my console abuts hers. The troll looks nothing like Elvis. Maybe fat Elvis. Right before he died, drugged out and on the s.h.i.tter. I wonder what that 911 call sounded like.

I unplug, log out, power down. Grab my logbook. Lock my drawer so the dispatcher due to my console in thirty-nine minutes won't steal the last of my Lucky Charms. I'm the one who painstakingly separated all the boring cereal from the delectable marshmallows, so I'm the one who gets to eat 'em.

Grab the report that confirms Batman Jerry didn't make it through our call.

Sorry, Batman Jerry. Rest in peace.

Chapter 2 - Nacho Fun Time.

The evening's saving grace: upon opening the apartment door, it smells a little like food. Keith made dinner. I am so grateful.

"Hey," I say, dumping my backpack on the floor. His black jump kit takes up the entire s.p.a.ce on the ornately carved foyer bench. The bench I bought to someday grace the grand foyer of my amazing house that I will somehow manage to buy on my pathetic salary. Which is why it's still sitting against the wall in my s.h.i.tty two-bedroom, rent-controlled apartment.

Why we need a jump kit inside the apartment at all times-"You never know when the Big One might hit, Hol, and people will need my help"-ergo, a 40 lb. bag of gloves, surgical tubing, IV bags, gauze, tape, water purifying salts, and silver emergency blankets sits in my hallway and takes up all the s.p.a.ce on my pretty bench.

I sort of hope an earthquake does. .h.i.t. And when it does, I hope it opens a chasm below this apartment and swallows the jump kit whole. I'll miss my bench, though.

The Yorkies go apes.h.i.t. I live here. This is my abode. And every single night, these stupid little a.s.s-licking, ankle-biting s.h.i.t machines bark like I'm the Creature from the Black Lagoon. a.s.sholes. I hate Yorkies. And by hate, I mean I want to drown them. Or magically turn them into clouds so they will float away on a breeze of my own making.

"Your dad called," Keith says from the kitchen. "Again."

"Mmm-hmm. What's for dinner?"

"Wait! Don't come in here."

"What?" I freeze. The Yorkies are yipping at me. I make my meanest face at them. They bark louder. Why can't we have a cat? Cats are so much cuter than Yorkies. Plus cats look like otters. Otters are the bestest creatures in the whole wild world. Thus, because it is not legal or practical for me to have an otter, we should have a cat. To balance out all the doggish hormones and s...o...b..r and ball-licking.

Keith leans around the corner, baggy flannel pants doing nothing for his a.s.s, stethoscope around his neck as per usual. Why he does this, I don't know. I have zero fantasies about humping a doctor. Or an EMT. Because Keith is not a doctor. He's the guy who drives the ambulance and jams the IV in your arm until he can take you to the hospital where a real doctor will help you. "I have a surprise for you. Go in the bedroom. Get comfy."

"Oooookay ..."

"And by comfy, I mean naked."

He leans close for a kiss but I push him away. He smells like dogs. And Cheetos. Have I mentioned how much I hate Cheetos? Well, I am telling you now: I f.u.c.king hate Cheetos. On a dare, I ate an entire bag at Charlotte Smith's ninth birthday slumber party because I wanted the little ceramic rainbow pin she was offering the winner, and I puked orange for four straight hours.

For the record, I won the pin. I still have it. But I don't eat Cheetos anymore.

G.o.d, I am a crabby cow tonight. I might need a chocolaty intervention to balance out the meanness.

He wants me naked. Now? "I need a shower. And you need to brush your teeth. You smell like Cheetos," I say.

Keith honks my b.o.o.b. "Fine, fine. But hurry. You're gonna love this."

I squint at him. Do I hear adventure coming from that boy's mouth? Is this real life? "What's going on?" I ask cautiously. I'm tired of Naughty Nurse. And Doctor and Nurse. And Doctor and Patient. And I Saved You From a Burning Building So You Should Have s.e.x With Me Even Though You're Unconscious and Could Be Dying from Smoke Inhalation. Shall I continue? All the games either end with me mummified in gauze and anch.o.r.ed to the bed, or with me pushing his stethoscope out of my face while he's pumping away. The romance is overwhelming. I know. Here's a cloth to wipe your fevered brow.

"Go get more comfortable. I mean it-no clothes. Find something to blindfold yourself."

I smile at him. "Really? Is this going to hurt?"

"Hollie ..."

"No stethoscope. No medical dramas. I don't want to play Grey's Anatomy anymore."

"This is something different."

"Okayyyyy."

"Do you trust me, Hols?"

Does he want a real answer to that? "I'll ... get changed." I slide into the bathroom to shave so he doesn't complain about my p.r.i.c.kly legs again (if he doesn't like the legs, he certainly won't like my panty tarantula). It's been a while since we did anything that involved being naked. Maybe a good toe-curler is just what I need, even if it involves something battery powered. And a warm shower does sound lovely. Wash the stink of death from my brain and body.

Once the tub tap is turned off, I hear him shuffling in the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Hmmm, maybe he's bought strawberries and whipped cream, or chocolate body glaze, or honey ... that would be something we've never tried before.

I throw some lotion on all the newly excoriated body parts and sneak out naked into the bedroom. I catch my reflection in the closet mirror. Turn sideways. Suck it in. I've only got a few years left with this body. I'd better take up yoga. Troll Lady keeps telling me how big my a.s.s is going to get from my job once I turn thirty or pop out a pup, whichever comes first. She's also told me that at forty, white hairs start growing from your chin and the sides of your face, and your body odor becomes unnatural. Which is why there's a huge cupboard of scented baby wipes in the bathroom at work.

These are not s.e.xy thoughts. These are gross thoughts. Must have s.e.xy thoughts.

I pose my s.e.xiest in the mirror. Push out my b.o.o.bs. Tough because they're a B cup. Okay, A cup. Whatever. The tarantula is under control. It's no Brazilian, but it'll do. I can't imagine having my p.u.b.es waxed completely off. First, the screaming. I would definitely scream. Second, doesn't it say something about a guy who wants a totally bare playground? It seems a little ... disturbing. Worrisome. Little girls are hairless. Women are not. Third, the unG.o.dly itching. I cannot even imagine how bad that s.h.i.t would itch when it grows back in- "Babe, you're not blindfolded."

I throw my arms over my nakedness, embarra.s.sed that I've been caught ogling myself in the mirror.

"Eyes are closed. I swear I'm not looking."

"Okay. Get on the bed. Don't peek," Keith instructs.

"Should I light some candles?"

"Probably not. Fire hazard." The bedroom door clicks closed. We're alone-without Yorkies! Cause for celebration.

I hear him setting up a TV tray. My stomach quivers in antic.i.p.ation of the coming treats. I've seen p.o.r.n with this. Food and stuff. Culinary naughtiness. Granted, it involved eating fruit salad out of ...

"Lie flat, Hols. And don't move." I do so. He shuffles something around. "Get ready. It's going to be-"

"COLD! Holy s.h.i.t, Keith, is that ice cream?"

"No," he laughs. "Just hold still. This will take a second."

I try to steady myself, but he's just smeared something, a lot of cold something, all over my stomach. Gooseb.u.mps break out on my arms. "Must be cold," he says, flicking my nipple. I smack at him. "Don't move! You'll ruin the surprise."

I'm thinking this must be whipped topping of some sort. It feels like that. Or maybe ice cream because it's really holding the cold. He's layering something else on top of it. I hear a jar opening. And a can. Then something plopping into the mix on my belly. Cherries, maybe? G.o.d, it's been forever since I've had a good chemical-infused maraschino cherry.

He opens a plastic bag and I almost open my eyes.

"Tell me those aren't Cheetos."

"Not Cheetos. Almost done. Hold still. This is awesome. I should take a pic-"

"If you so much as finish that sentence, this party is over."

He laughs. "Final touches. You ready?"

"Go."

It's a squirt bottle. Has to be chocolate or caramel sauce. He's drizzled some over my b.o.o.bs. That will be fun to lick ...

Wait a second. Why is it burning?

"Keith ..."

"Almost done, babe. This is cla.s.sic."

"Keith, what did you just squirt on my b.o.o.bs?"

That's it. I'm opening my eyes.

I do, expecting to be greeted by a belly covered in ice cream, whipped cream, cherries, the works.

"You-you made nachos? On my stomach?"

"Yeah! Isn't it awesome? I saw this the other night on Food p.o.r.n."

"Is that a show?"

"It's these two guys who mix food and p.o.r.n, but the food they make is p.o.r.n all by itself. They said that this is a fun way to spice things up in the bedroom."

"Keith, my b.o.o.bs-they're burning."

He leans in for a kiss. "That's so hot, baby ..."

"No, I mean like my nipple is on fire."

He sits back, reaches over to the TV tray, and grabs the squirt bottle. "Oh. s.h.i.t."

"Oh s.h.i.t what?"

"Babe, I'm so sorry ..." He can't finish his sentence because he's laughing like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned fool. He hands me the bottle.

"Extra hot Sriracha. Excellent. That's brilliant. My nipples are going to melt off and you're laughing."

"I'm ... so ... sorry." He stumbles into the bathroom and gets a wet washcloth. When he tries to wipe it off, I smack him again and take the cloth, careful not to spill the entree onto the bed. Because, of course, we're on my side of the bed.

As I'm wiping the sizzling rooster sauce off my t.i.ts, Keith sneaks over to the dresser for his iPhone.

"I'm not kidding. You will never get another piece of this a.s.s ever again in your life if you take that photo."

"Come on, Hols. I promise not to get your coochie or any b.o.o.bage. Just one shot?"

I glare at him, blowing alternately on one nipple, then the next. "I think I need ice. f.u.c.k, I think you blistered me!"

"I did not ..."

"LOOK, KEITH."