Page 27 of What We Break
Or I could find him. I could ask Joyce?—
No. Go inside. Sleep. He'll find you or he won't.
I grab my bag. Walk inside. Check on my fiddle leaf fig.
"He didn't ask for my number," I tell it, because I have to tell somebody. Okay, not a somebody. A something.
Still counts.
6
REID
"Garrison! Get your ass over here," Brennan calls from across the station. "Walsh owes Kowalski money."
I drop my gear bag by my locker and jog over to where half the crew is gathered around the duty board. Nothing like watching someone lose a bet to start the shift right.
"What's this about?" I ask.
"Walsh here bet that you'd call in sick today," Tony says. "Said you looked like death warmed over when we finished our shift this morning."
"I said he looked tired," Walsh protests. "Man worked fourteen festival calls and then stayed out until God knows when."
"Nine thirty," I say, holding up my hands. "I was home by nine thirty like a responsible adult. Tucked in. Warm milk. The whole thing."
"Bullshit," Brennan laughs. "Nobody looks that happy unless they got laid."
"Or fell in love," adds Soren behind his coffee mug.
Holy fuck, the rumor mill is in fine shape today. "Can't a man just enjoy a good breakfast?" I snatch one of the twenties from Kowalski'shand as he's counting his winnings. "Thanks for the faith in me, assholes. I'm using this to buy donuts. None of you get any."
"Hey!" Kowalski yells, but he's laughing.
"Speaking of last night," Walsh says, pocketing the rest of his loss, "any word on what the hell people were actually taking? Because that was some weird shit, even for festival drugs."
"No kidding," Tony agrees. "I've seen people on everything from meth to bath salts, but I've never had someone try to teach me to fly."
"Or ask me to check their molecular structure," Soren adds.
"You guys got off easy," Kowalski says. "We had a woman who was convinced her hands were made of glass and kept asking us to be careful not to break her fingers."
"And that dude who thought he was shrinking," Walsh adds. "Kept begging us not to step on him."
Brennan shakes his head. "Worst one we got was the guy who was sure his skin was melting off. Spent twenty minutes trying to collect it in a bag."
"Jesus," I mutter. Other than a little pot when I was a kid, I've stayed away from drugs. I don't get the attraction. Why the hell do people want to fuck with their brains like that? Give me a beer and a good burger, and I'm happy.
"Festival organizers aren't talking," Brennan continues. "But rumor is the cops think it was some new synthetic hallucinogen. Probably got mixed in with the regular party drugs."
Chief Williams appears from his office, coffee in hand. "Alright, listen up. We've got extra units running festival coverage again tonight, so stay sharp. Good news is, DEA thinks they got the source of whatever was making people think they were turning into animals. Bad news is, there's still plenty of regular festival drugs to keep us busy."
He runs through the usual briefing—weather, road conditions, special events. "Medics, you're working with county dispatch for any overflow from downtown. Fire suppression, we're on standby for crowd control if things get hairy."
"Any questions?" Chief asks.
"Yeah," Brennan calls out. "When do we get hazard pay for dealing with people who think they're turning into animals?"
"Around the same time the hair starts growing back on the top of your head," Chief shoots back without missing a beat.
