Page 77 of The Man I Hate

“But it’s your intention to see him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he at home? Quarantined?”

“He is.”

“Does anyone else live in the home?”

“No, he lives alone.”

He raised his index finger. “Just a moment.”

He returned with two bulging plastic bags. “Here. Take these.”

I glanced inside. In one, there was a pair of rose-colored scrubs. In the other, there were two masks, a package of disinfectant wipes, and a wad of blue rubber gloves.

The masks, wipes, and gloves were like gold. Hospitals were crying for the supplies and couldn’t acquire them.

“What—”

“We just got a shipment in of gloves, wipes, and masks. We’re donating everything to the hospitals. You’ll need it as badly as they do, and they sure won’t miss them.” He nodded toward the aisle at my side. “Get some Gatorade. It’s as good as the Pedialyte.”

My heart swelled. “Thank you.”

His lips thinned. “Look, I’m sorry.” He shook his head in an apology, of sorts. “It’s been a tough several weeks. If you don’t have one, grab a digital thermometer on your way out. Be sure to take his temperature. If it’s over 103, call an ambulance.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll grab one on my way out.”

“Take a trash bag with you when you go to see him,” he said. “Put on the scrubs, gloves, and mask before you enter his home. If possible, wear something underneath the scrubs. Once inside the home, don’t touch anything you don’t have to. Preferably, nothing. When you exit the home, use one of those disinfectant wipes to close the door, then wipe the door handles down, both inside and out. Disrobe immediately, if possible. Place the gloves, the scrubs, and the used disinfectant wipe in the trash bag. Set the trash bag aside, put on a new pair of gloves, and then pick it back up. When you get home, handle the scrubs with the gloves. Wash the scrubs. Discard the gloves and the trash bag. Then, take a hot shower with soap.”

“Oh my gosh. Thank you so much.”

He grinned. “I’m glad I could help.”

“Well, again, thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Anna.”

“Your friend’s name?”

“Braxton.”

He gave a nod and turned away. “Stop in and see me when he’s better, will you?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I sure will.”

I prayed that one day I’d be able to fulfil the promise.

* * *

I pulled into my driveway. There was a truck blocking Braxton’s drive. A man was standing on Braxton’s porch, pounding his fist against the door like a madman.

I shoved the car into park, bringing it to a screeching halt. I flung my door open and jumped out.

“Hey!” I shouted.