A story by alum Laura Moretz (fiction, ’15) appears at r.kv.r.y. Quarterly:
By the counter where the nurse gave out B vitamins and detox meds, Deirdre watched two EMTs wheel in a fifty-something man on a stretcher, his skin a scary yellow. Fenwick stepped close. “You’re next, baby,” he said, “if you don’t stop.”
Deirdre wrinkled her nose. Fenwick’s sweet deodorant made her nauseous. The EMTs bumped the gurney over the doorsill and into a room and she wondered if Fenwick—she’d seen him at AA meetings before—was stalking her. A certified recovery counselor, and not much taller than a dwarf, he’d asked her at Hope House, first thing: “Are you one of us?” She’d said, “No,” and he’d been needling her ever since. Deirdre looked toward where the gurney had gone.
“Show’s over,” the charge nurse said.
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