Page 51 of Stalkers Anonymous

Dr. Gupta, the urologist, arrives within a few minutes. She’s a small woman with kind eyes and zero capacity for being shocked by anything. She reviews Brandon’s imaging, examines him, then comes to find Dr. Chen and me at the desk.

“He’s going to the OR,” she says. “We need to get the foreign material out and debride the infected tissue. I won’t know how much I can save until I’m in there.”

As the transport team wheels him out, I exhale slowly. Whatever decisions led him here, this man is a person. A scared, embarrassed, possibly very unlucky person. And, I suspect, a person in need of mental health support.

But also—six ketchup packets. Six.

By midnight, the ER has settled into its quieter phase—the initial evening rush subsided, the late-night emergencies not yet arrived. I take the opportunity to chart thoroughly, but my mind keeps slipping back to Cole.

Rachel finds me in the break room and drops into the chair across from me with a container of pasta that smells aggressively of garlic. Seeing her is like a cool wash of aloe gel on an emotional sunburn. We found out the other day that she got hired part-time at a physical therapy clinic on the other side of town, which means she’ll be able to reduce her hours at Fort Collins Memorial. I’m obviously thrilled for my friend, but I can’t deny how empty this place will feel when her presence doesn’t ring through the hallways quite as much.

“You look like you’ve had a night,” she says, stabbing a forkful of leftovers. “Spill.”

“Where do I even start?” I take a long sip of my coffee. “Brandon Halverson.”

“Don’t know him.”

“You will. He’s in the OR right now with Dr. Gupta.”

“Trauma?”

“Foreign body.”

Rachel pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. She knows that tone. We’ve had a lot of foreign-body conversations over our two-year friendship.

“How bad?”

“Possible Fournier’s. He came in septic.”

“Oh no.” She winces. “What was the FB?”

I take another long sip of coffee, savoring this. My compassion for Brandon doesn’t preclude me from acknowledging the humor of the situation. Penises are funny on a good day. Penises filled with condiments? Comedy gold. “Six rolled-up ketchup packets. In his urethra. For four days.”

Rachel sets her fork down very slowly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“I need you to repeat that for the record.”

“Six. Rolled-up. Ketchup packets.”

“In his—”

“In his urethra.”

“For—”

“Four days.”

Rachel stares at me, and I stare back, unblinking. The microwave hums in the background. Somewhere down the hall, a call bell rings.

“Wait.” Her brow furrows. “Ketchup packets? Wouldn’t you think—”

“Mayo.”

“—mayo?”