Page 52 of Stalkers Anonymous

We say it at exactly the same time, which is when we absolutely lose it. Real, undignified, head-back, snort-laughing. I have to put down my coffee because I’m going to spill it. Rachel is wheezing.

“It’s the lubrication,” she gasps. “It’s literally—”

“It’s the texture—”

“Mayo would glide—”

“Rachel!”

“Why ketchup? Was it a flavor thing?”

“Don’t—” I’m crying laughing now. “Don’t make me think about it as a flavor thing.”

“There has to be a thought process. Somewhere in his brain there was a moment when he thought, I should grab the ketchup.”

We’re full-on cackling now, probably drawing the attention of people in the hallway.

Eventually we wind down, both wiping our eyes. I feel lighter than I have in days.

“Poor guy, though,” she finally says, sobering. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Dr. Gupta thinks so. ‘Cautiously optimistic.’” I make air quotes with my fingers. “He came in just in time.”

We sit in companionable silence for a moment before Rachel’s expression shifts. I watch it happen in real time—the joke fades, replaced by something more serious. Here we go.

“So.” She stabs another forkful of pasta but doesn’t eat it. “What else is wrong? I didn’t find you sitting in here with that look on your face because some guy shoved ketchup packets in his dick. Just because I’m starting at the PT clinic soon doesn’t mean you stop telling me 150 percent of your thoughts and feelings. So spill.”

“It’s nothing, really. I’m fine. Just something Marco said.”

She gives me a look. The Rachel Look. The one that has gotten me to spill my deepest secrets.

I sigh and tell her about the call Marco took.

Rachel sits straighter and leans forward. “What?”

“They wouldn’t give their name. Hung up when Marco asked who was calling.”

“Okay, that’s creepy as hell.” She sets her pasta down, her full attention on me now. “Did you tell security?”

“It’s probably nothing.” I fidget with my phone case. “Could’ve been a wrong number, or someone trying to reach me who didn’t know the right way to ask.”

“Or it could be connected to the other stuff.” Rachel’s eyes narrow. “The note. Your car.”

I wince. I shouldn’t have told her about any of it. I knew she’d worry.

“We don’t know that.”

“We don’t not know, either.” She leans forward, her expression shifting from concern to frustration. “Hailey, someone is harassing you. First the note, then your car gets keyed, and now someone’s calling the hospital asking about your schedule? You can’t tell me it’s not Lars Winters doing all of this. The guy’s a fucking creep. This is a pattern of gross behavior.”

“It’s not—”

“It is.” Rachel cuts me off firmly. “And you know it. You need to tell security. Like, yesterday.”

The familiar resistance rises in my chest, that instinctive pushback against involving anyone else in my problems. “And say what? ‘Hey, I got a weird note and some scratches on my car, please solve this mystery for me’? I’ll be the doc who cried wolf.”

“Scratches on my car? Are you really trying to reduce what happened to scratches? And so what if security thinks you’re making a fuss over nothing? At least there’s a record of it and they can keep an eye out here for you.”

“I just…” I trail off, struggling to articulate the knot of feelings tangled in my gut. “I don’t want to make it into a thing. If I start reporting stuff, suddenly everyone’s going to be watching me, asking questions, treating me differently. I’ll be the woman with the stalker problem, instead of the capable doctor on the floor.”