Page 2 of Vital Signs
The pain intensified until I couldn’t draw breath, and I thought my chest might explode. My eyelids got heavy. The pain was fading. Everything was fading.
My lips moved, but I couldn’t get a sound out.
I fell face first into the snow and stared at the pill bottle, its contents dissolving in the snow.It doesn’t have my name on it, I thought numbly.How will anyone know who I was?
A tear traced down the side of my nose. “Tyler,” I whispered. “I’m Tyler.” But no one was around to hear it.
He was still there,smoking under the lamppost.
The same guy had been across the street all morning, leaning against the lamppost like he belonged there. High cheekbones, dark hair buzzed military short. Asian, maybe mid-thirties. Sharp jawline with a small cleft in his chin. The canvas jacket looked like it had been through hell, but everything else about him seemed controlled, deliberate.
Beautiful, in a dangerous way. The kind of dangerous that made smart people keep their distance.
I'd never been particularly smart.
I moved closer to the receiving bay window, where I was sure he'd see me.
My reflection stared back from the glass, dark curls still holding their shape despite the long night. The morning light washed me out, made me look like I needed more sleep. I loosened my tie and pushed back a few strands that had escaped their careful styling.
Come play, I thought, tilting my head to catch the morning light better.I learned this game from bigger predators than you.
The man across the street took a long drag of his cigarette. I smiled just enough to show teeth and waited to see if he'd take the bait.
After a moment, he pushed off the lamppost. But he didn't leave. Instead, he moved to a new position for a better view, settling against a tree like he had all the time in the world.
Persistent. I respected that.
My phone timer buzzed, announcing the end of my break. I silenced it with a sigh, casting one last glance at the watcher before turning back to work. The newly arrived body from the county morgue couldn't wait, even for this intriguing game of cat and mouse.
I walked downstairs and pulled on the white lab coat. It fit differently from the designer jackets I'd worn on Parisian runways, but it still served the same function: armor. The disposable face mask came next. I pulled it into place followed by the secure hair net, my apron, booties, gloves. My reflection in the steel cabinets showed only my eyes now, dark brown and sharp. No longer the pretty face that Paris fashion houses had bought and sold. Just a professional. Just someone who spoke for the dead.
The intercom crackled. "Misha, have you started on that county delivery yet?" River asked. "I'm in the embalming room if you need me."
"About to," I replied.
I approached the body bag that had arrived earlier that morning. The paperwork beside it listed minimal details: female, mid-twenties to early thirties. Found deceased near the Hocking River. Suspected overdose. Dated three weeks ago. The county morgue had finally run out of space and offloaded theiroverflow to us. To them, this was just another Jane Doe nobody had claimed.
The zipper came down in one smooth motion, and I frowned before reaching to double-check the paperwork. Then I glanced back at the body. The body on my table had subtle masculine facial features and the faint shadow of a beard. Not telling in itself. But the tattoo... That gave it away. This wasn't a woman. Not with a tattoo that clearly read: he/him and a date stamped in black letters for all to see underneath.
"Those incompetent bastards."
They'd misgendered a dead man. Sloppy work that would compromise the entire chain of custody. Unacceptable.
I stared at the tattoo for a long moment. Then the anger shifted. Became personal.
He'd gotten that tattoo to be seen correctly. Had it inked permanently into his skin because people kept getting it wrong, kept refusing to acknowledge who he was. Just like I had. I understood the desperate need to make your identity undeniable, to write it on your body since the world refused to read it in your face, your voice, your existence.
I forced my hands steady and began documenting everything they'd missed.
His belongings sat in a plastic bag. Torn jeans, a threadbare t-shirt, a single sock, a worn chest binder and a cell phone that was out of battery. I carefully set the items aside. The decedent's belongings normally weren't supposed to come to us. They should have been placed in a sealed bin in holding at the county office, but clearly nobody gave a damn about the chain of custody in this case.
My fingers trembled as I cleaned the body.
This young man, whoever he was, had been misgendered, mistreated, and grossly mishandled in death. There were bruises and marks that suggested he hadn't had an easy life. The casualcruelty of it—not just the death, but the erasure afterward—made my chest tighten.
A flash of memory. Roche's voice, smooth and clinical: "They'll never see you as a real man, Misha. Not like me."
No. Focus. This wasn't about me.
