Page 61 of Good Half Gone

“You really should eat in the staff cafeteria.” Her tone is sharper than her breath, which smells of alcohol. It’s not a suggestion. My mouth goes dry. Was she watching me? If she wasn’t, someone else was and they were reporting back to her. That was stupid. There were cameras everywhere. Everyone was being watched all of the time.

“I didn’t know we weren’t allowed to eat in the patient cafeteria.”

I have to scan the card twice before it works.

“It’s not encouraged. Your people are out there. These are patients.”

“I understand,” I say.

“Good.”

I come back to my senses as soon as I cross the glass walkway. That was a weird morning. In the span of two minutes, one of my bosses asked me on a work date, and the other chided me. Part of me thinks that I’m imagining his attention, but most of me knows I’m not. I’m suspicious of it and yet I want more.

I have to use my key card to get outside. The greenhouse, as it turns out, is a beautiful, warm place. Beds of vegetables grow on one side, and on the other are dozens of plant variations,all watered by a timed mist. He’s waiting inside, looking at the vegetables, when I walk in. I watch as he plucks a cherry tomato from the vine and pops it into his mouth.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey there.” He smiles; it reaches his eyes, and I’m a little breathless. We’re standing two feet away from each other.

“Who tends this?” I ask, looking around in wonder. There are lemon trees and lime trees, green peppers, potatoes, squash, cabbage…

“The patients. It’s become a passion project for some of them. They’re doing great, as you can see… Alma planted those tomatoes. She seems to really like you.”

“I’m a granny’s girl,” I tell him. “I think maybe I’m just good with that demographic.”

“Don’t be so humble. You’re good with the patients, everyone says so. And besides, I’m not sure Alma fits into a demographic.”

“True.”

His hair and beard are collecting tiny droplets from the mist.

“Do the patients from D hall ever come out here?” I pick one of Alma’s tomatoes and pop it in my mouth.

It’s the first time he’s looked uncomfortable. “We used to. There was an incident a few years ago. One of the patients had a violent regression.”

“Did anyone get hurt?”

He hesitates. “Yes, actually. They attacked one of the security guards with a spade and killed him.”

“Okay. Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Violence in a place for the violent?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

He grimaces, his eyes going dark. “There were two patients from D who collaborated the attack…” He looks ahead to the tree line and frowns. “I have something to confess. I googled you.”

I’m thrown by the change in topic, but once his words sink in,I stare at him and say nothing. I don’t do nervous talking; on the contrary, I get lock tongue.

“You look like you want to kill me,” he admits. I swallow the lump in my throat.

“No, it’s just my face.”

He laughs.

His face is mostly concealed by his beard. I always thought it unfair that men could hide their weak chins and acne scars beneath a beard. His eyebrows are well-groomed, and he has full lips resting under a nice straight nose. I can’t tell what he’s thinking at the moment.

“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

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