Page 15 of Keeping It Professional

“Eighth floor,” he said.

I grunted,uh-huh. My legs were like jelly, my jaw clenched tight. Eight floors to go. Sixteen tight turns. My knees might explode by then. Or my ears, from the screaming.

“You’re doing great,” said Miles, and I thought he meant me. Then, I saw he was addressing the patient, encouraging him in the gap between screams. “Seven more floors, we’ll get you on the bus.”

The lights flicked back on at the second-floor landing, and Miles’s outraged snort almost made me laugh. But I’d run out of breath for that, so I just rolled my eyes, and together we staggered down the last flight. We loaded the patient into the bus, rechecked his vitals, and Miles stood up.

“Okay, I’ll drive. Reeves, would you?—”

Pthbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt.

Miles stared at me. I stared at him. I thought it was him at first, farting up the tight cabin. Then I glanced at the patient, caught the look on his face, shock, relief, horror. Embarrassment. And still he kept farting,pthhh-bthhhhh-bbbbbbb-ffffffff.

“Is that… better?” said Miles, when he was done.

The patient gaped up at him, red as a beet. “Actually, yeah. I think, uh, I’m fine.”

I’d have busted out laughing, but I didn’t dare breathe. I leaned out the door, gulping fresh air.

“Let me just check your stomach.” Miles coughed, then knelt. I bent to help him unhook the straps. The patient sat up.

“No, really, I’m fine.”

Miles checked him anyway, but sure enough, he was fine. He jumped out and left us in our gross, farty bus, and Miles slumped on the cot and buried his face in his hands.

“Nineteen damnfloorsfor that. For a damn fart.”

“Thirty-eight floors, if you’re counting both ways.”

Miles did a groan-laugh and heaved himself up. “All right. Let’s get out of here before he needs to burp.”

I laughed, and we piled back in front. Our shift was ending by then, and an idea struck me. Miles wasn’t in the worst mood, and he had to be hungry. He hadn’t eaten in twelve hours, and neither had I. Maybe this was my moment to hold out an olive branch.

“Hey, Miles?”

“Yeah?”

“Want to go grab some breakfast?”

He frowned. “What, now? We need to drop off the bus.”

“I meant after that. I’m starving. Aren’t you?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Iwas, till that fart.”

I bit back a sigh. So much for my olive branch. I’d hoped if we talked away from the job, without the life-and-death stress to amp up the tension, we might find some peace. Some understanding between us. Clive had watched us this morning on our maintenance check, and from the look on his face, he’d heard about our fight.

“You still have to eat,” I said.

“Who are you, my mom?” Miles scowled, then he softened. “You know what? Okay. Meet me out front when you’re ready to go.”

An hour later, I found Miles on the front bench, legs stretched out long, staring up at the sky. He stood when he saw me.

“My car’s over there.” He pointed, and I saw he was parked right by me. “You want me to follow you, or should I pick the place?”

“Follow me,” I said. “The diner okay?”

Miles nodded, and we headed over. I found us a booth while he put in our orders, and soon we were both tucking into tall stacks of pancakes. We ate in silence at first, then I broke the ice.

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