The Blind. A.F. Brady

as I open my door and pretend I haven’t been listening. “What’s happening? How’s everyone?” It’s clear there’s tension in the hallway, and various patients have fled to the safety of the couches in the computer room. Everyone’s eyes are glued to Tyler and the storyteller.

      “Hi, I’m Dr. James. I don’t think we’ve met.” I extend my hand to the storyteller, who has his eyes trained on Tyler. He ignores me. “What’s your name?”

      “Floyd.” He still won’t take his eyes off Tyler. Floyd is about a foot shorter than Tyler is, but has probably sixty pounds on him. Tyler is vibrating with anger.

      “Miss Sam, I don’t think you should be here right now.”

      “Really, Tyler?” Chipper, unaware. “How come?”

      “This man got no respect for women.” Tyler is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clenching and unclenching his fists. Floyd doesn’t move. He stares, unblinking, at Tyler, waiting for him to act.

      “Pitchers and catchers report in a couple months, you know.” Talking Yankee baseball with Tyler is my ace in the hole to defuse this without security or backup. “Floyd, are you a baseball fan?” I ask as I move to the space between them, and the air is thick with perspiration and rage. “Tyler and I are huge Yankee fans.” I’m a little taller than Floyd, so when I’m up close to his face, he has to shift his gaze to make eye contact with me. I’m obscuring his view of Tyler, so he’s forced to address me.

      “Yeah. I could watch some baseball, miss.”

      “America’s pastime. It’s a beautiful thing. Now—” I clap my hands together “—where are you gentlemen supposed to be? I’m sure there’s something productive we could all be doing instead of loitering here in the hallway, huh?”

      No one responds to me, but several patients observing from the computer room peel themselves off the couches and move on. Tyler is backing up slightly, but I can still feel his breath at the back of my neck.

      “No? Okay. But I’ve got things to do. Tyler? Want to walk me to my next group?” I know Tyler is a gentleman and he wouldn’t let a lady walk by herself if she asked for an escort.

      “Alright, Miss Sam.” I hear his teeth grind as he steps in front of me and starts slowly moving down the hallway. I pull my glasses down my nose and glower at Floyd.

      Tyler and I walk down the hall, and I again ask him about baseball. Completely distracted, trying to shake the story from a moment ago, he falters and mumbles. When we reach an empty group room, I step inside and ask him to follow me.

      “Tyler, when you hear something like that and you react, it just feeds the beast. He was telling that story to get a reaction out of people. Let’s not give him the satisfaction, okay? When you’re disturbed by somebody, you walk away. You don’t engage. Come find me or another staff member if you feel you’re not able to take it, okay?”

      “He killed that dog. I just got so mad when he said he killed that innocent dog and that innocent lady.”

      “Yeah, me too, Tyler. Me too. But we can’t let it get to us, okay? We have to rise above it.”

      “You think it’s bullshit? He’s making it up to scare the other patients?”

      “Maybe. Maybe he’s making it up. But even if he didn’t kill an innocent dog or an innocent lady, you and I both know that there are innocent ladies and dogs getting killed every day. But we can’t go to pieces and get in fights because of it. You’re here to take care of you, not to worry about anybody else. Right?”

      “Yeah. I know you’re right, Miss Sam. I’m here to worry about me. And the Yankees, because, last season, our pitching wasn’t looking so good.”

      “You’re damn right about that.”

NOVEMBER 14TH, 9:21 P.M.

      I’m sitting on my couch waiting for Lucas to show up with takeout. He said he was going to be here an hour ago, but he’s not here yet. I’m trying to read a book, and I have to close one eye to see the words. I’m distracted and hungry, and I keep checking my phone to see if Lucas is going to text me. Nothing. I texted him thirty minutes ago, asking when he’s planning on arriving, but I didn’t get a response. I reread the same page over and over again.

      My glass is empty now, and so is the bottle next to it. When I’m anxious, I drink faster than I should. Even though it’s cold outside, colder than the last few Novembers, I’m still drinking white wine. I carefully wipe up the condensation on the coffee table with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and tiptoe to the recycling bin. I plop the still-sweaty bottle into the bin and crack open the twist-off lid of another one. It’s better if Lucas doesn’t know that I already drank a whole bottle. As I’m tiptoeing back to the couch, my phone buzzes and my foot catches the leg of the coffee table.

      It’s Lucas. Buzz me in, forgot my key.

      I write back, You have to push the button first; it won’t work if you don’t buzz.

      The buzzer blares a long and angry scream into my apartment, and I depress the button to release the door. I can see Lucas’s bad mood on the grainy security camera. He slaps the up button for the elevator. He usually takes the stairs, because I’m only on the third floor, but when he’s pissed, or drunk, or carrying something, he takes the elevator. Tonight, it seems he’s all three. I leave the front door ajar and return to the couch. I pour a small glass of wine and clutch it as I wait. I pull my knees up to my chest and hunker down into my pillows.

      Lucas marches in the front door and promptly dumps the take-out bag on the floor. He shoves it into the kitchen with his foot and angrily peels off his coat.

      “Well, you could offer to give me a hand.” He huffs at me. I pop up off the couch and greet him with a kiss on the cheek. I pick up the take-out bag, which is filled with something that has gone cold, and I lift it onto the kitchen counter. Lucas is very obviously on drugs. His hair is matted down to the back of his neck and his collar is soaked with sweat. He is clenching and unclenching his jaw, and he has thick white spit gathered in the corners of his mouth. Cocaine. He doesn’t say anything else to me and instead walks to the bathroom to tidy himself up. As I hang his coat on the back of a barstool, I reach into his pockets to see what I can find.

      A half-smoked pack of cigarettes next to an unopened pack. A black Bic lighter with gouges at the bottom from using it to open bottles. A crumpled credit-card receipt from First Wok with today’s date on it. The time stamp was from two hours ago. I stuff the contents back into his pockets and reach into the breast pocket. A rolled-up fifty-dollar bill with one end wet and the other end powdery, and a tiny empty bag that used to house a gram of cocaine. Adrenaline burns in my stomach as I drop the contraband back into his coat.

      I sit down on the couch and take a big gulp of wine. I light a cigarette and wait to hear the toilet flush. He usually muffles the sounds of his snorts by flushing the toilet. He probably has another bag in there with him. My building is old, and so is the plumbing. He overflowed the toilet once from flushing too many times because he was snorting so many lines. Somehow, he still thinks I haven’t figured out what he’s doing in there. I hear the telltale flush, and then he appears outside the bathroom door.

      “Whew, sorry about that,” he says as he plops down on the couch next to me. “Been a long day, and I’m lugging this Chinese food here, and I can’t find my keys, and I just got frustrated. Hi,” he says, turning to me and kissing me on the mouth. “How was your day?”

      I can taste the coke and it immediately makes my lower lip numb, so I pull away from him and wipe my mouth. “My day was fine. How was your coke?”

      “Oh, Sam. I don’t want to get into this.” He rolls his eyes and flaps his hands at me. “I had a long day and I needed a pick-me-up. Brian from the office was holding and he gave me a bag as we were leaving. We were working on a very important