No Blood on My Hands

by Pete D. Manison

Illustration by Darryl Elliott

In her first waking moments, when dreams and reality overlapped and the world was soft and hazy, Dr. Janet Jeffries became vaguely aware of something wet and sticky on her hands. She pawed at her pillow. The smell brought her fully awake, and she stared at the dark streaks her fingers had left on the pillowcase.

Blood.

She sat up in bed and looked at herself. This had to be a dream, she told herself, because people just didn’t wake up with blood halfway up their arms and spattered all over their nightgowns. Not in the real world. No, it just didn’t happen.

But when she’d waited a minute or two and the dream was still going on, she began to notice the unmistakable signs of real life. A truck could be heard moving down the street, and she remembered that today was Thursday, garbage pickup day. She ran her tongue over her teeth and found a layer of disgusting residue there. And she had to go to the bathroom.

Janet looked at her hands again. The blood had begun to dry. She got up from bed and moved to the bathroom. Washing her hands, she began to notice other things: a grayish powder on the bottoms of her feet, a throbbing behind her ears, a general feeling of fatigue that made it seem like she hadn’t slept at all.

A shower and two cups of coffee cleared up all these symptoms, and by the time Janet Jeffries left for the hospital, the whole thing began to seem like it might have been a dream after all.

Reminder:you need to start getting out more often.

“Morning, Dr. Jeffries.”

“Morning, Paul. Anything unusual on the docket for today?”

The receptionist’s eyes moved over his computerized lists of appointments and notes. “No, ma’am. Two defibrillator implants, at ten and twelve, consultations till four, and I have a note saying you planned dinner with Dr. Forester at eight.”

Janet blinked. “What? That man! Did he call again? Or did he send roses?”

“He called.”

“The nerve. Next time hang up on him. That’s doctor’s orders. And call me Janet, will you? You’ve been my receptionist for a month.”

Paul reddened slightly. “Of course… Janet. You know, you’re looking a little tired today.”

Janet smiled, slipped into her lab coat. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll be checking x-rays until that first defibrillator at ten. Buzz me by a quarter till if I’m not here.”

Paul nodded. Janet went out, walking with her short energetic steps down the hospital corridor. That Fred Forester! If he wasn’t questioning her skill as a surgeon he was trying to seduce her or make her look like a fool in front of the rest of the staff. Sexual harassment was what it was, but she was new at the hospital and it hadn’t gone too far and… damn it, she was mad as hell!

What could she do? Report him and open a Pandora’s box of trouble? Encourage him and end up—she shuddered. Don’t think it. Not with that bald, sneering fat man. Ignore him. Hope he’ll go away.

“Janet! I was hoping I’d bump into you this morning.”

She turned.

Suddenly, she felt sick to her stomach.

Reminder:get rid of that “sexy perfume,” and avoid the corridors near the x-ray lab whenever possible.

The next morning, Janet awoke in confusion. Something about a dream, about smoke and fire and… blood. She looked at her hands.

“This is getting weird,” she grumbled. She cleaned up and sat down to look herself in the eyes in the steamy bathroom mirror. Something was going on here. What? She tried to remember the feeling, like standing somewhere amidst loud noises and acrid fumes and anguished screams.

She gasped. The image was so real. A dream. Yes, surely a dream. No, not a dream. Physical traces. Two consecutive nights. Somnambulation? And what? Murder? The thought so terrified her that she went out, picked up the paper off the front lawn, and scanned it for mysterious attacks or deaths. Nothing. Quiet all week. Less than the usual amount of violence.

Blood on her hands two days running.

She went to work.

Reminder: talk to Dr. Cisneros about “dreams.” Don’t mention the blood.

The next day was horrible. She almost lost two patients, both on what seemed routine operations. Both were easily explainable as unavoidable complications, and she brought one back so miraculously that the anesthesiologist actually congratulated her afterward and said he’d never seen such fine work. But inside, Janet wondered. She felt awful. Maybe she was coming down with something. Maybe she was cracking up.

Forester cornered her again, this time in the elevator as she was heading to the parking garage at the end of the day.

“So,” he said through his usual jowly smirk, “are we on for tomorrow night?”

Janet blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I called your receptionist, but I guess he hasn’t been giving you all your messages. I wouldn’t trust that boy, Janet. He reminds me of a guy I used to room with in med school: innocent as hell on the outside, but a scheming bastard underneath. Don’t let a guy like that ruin a potentially meaningful—”

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened.

There was a god.

“Sorry, Fred,” she said quickly, stepping out and glancing around and spotting, thankfully, several other doctors and nurses in the parking garage. “I don’t want to go out with you. Not last night, not tomorrow night, not ever. I hope I’ve made that clear enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired, and I’m going home.”

He stared after her. She could feel his eyes, feel the heat from them, but when he called out it was with his usual false joviality. “Sure, Janet. Maybe some other time, then.”

She kept walking.

Reminder: what? Stop washing? Hedge trimmers? Christ, I need some rest. But do I dare sleep?

By the seventh time she’d awoken in bloody sheets, Dr. Janet Jeffries had become convinced that she was either going the schizophrenic hallucination route or she was the victim of malevolent, small-bodied aliens who abducted her into their spacecraft every night and performed bizarre surgeries on her body and then erased her memory before returning her to her bed each morning. One of the two, had to be.

What was certain to her was that she could not continue to work—to take the lives of trusting patients into her hands—under these conditions. Every muscle in her body was sore, she had unusual aches and pains, and it felt like she hadn’t slept in a month. Her hand was steady when she held it out before her that seventh morning, but she knew better than to trust it.

She got on the phone.

“That’s right, Paul. A very nasty virus. Wouldn’t want to take any chances. Yes, yes I’m on antibiotics, and don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I just can’t risk spreading the infection. Exactly. Just take all my messages, tell them I’m unavailable for the next several days, and I’ll check in with you regularly. But Paul? Call me if there’s an emergency with one of my patients. No one knows them the way I do. Sure, I’ll do that. Thanks. Bye.”

Janet hung up the phone. She hated lying, especially to Paul, who seemed like such a nice kid. But she needed time to think this thing out, and the truth, if reported at this stage, could wreck her career.

She shivered. It sure had been getting colder these last couple of days. In July, to have the heater on? She turned it higher, though, because she was cold, as if her innards were made of ice.

The recorder. That was what she’d been trying to remember. The video recorder her neighbor Bruce had agreed to loan her, no strings attached, he’d said with his blond, mustached smile. She’d slept with Bruce several times, but as always her work dominated her life and drove him away, or drove her away, or did whatever it tended to do, which she’d never really been able to figure out.

Another cup of coffee.

The camcorder! He’d left it just inside the door (still had his key, did he?). She checked the camera out. It was a tiny thing, no larger than a deck of cards, the very latest in microtechnology. When everything worked she set it on the chest of drawers in her bedroom so that it covered the entire length of her bed.

I never thought I’d be doing this kind of film, Janet thought tiredly that night as she removed her clothes before the camera, put on her nightgown, and got into bed. The red light on the camcorder kept her awake ten minutes longer than usual, but, finally, she slept.

Reminder: cop}’ tape segment with unexplained image sequence. See if Bruce knows how to slow down or enhance.

“No, Fred, it’s not tuberculosis or St. Louis encephalitis. It’s just a… bug. I think that’s the technical term. But thanks for calling, really. I’ve got to go now, I’m very tired. No, I’m not angry with you. No, I don’t need anything. No! I just need some rest, OK? Look, Fred, I’m not feeling well at all. I’m sorry I snapped at you. Will you cover my patients until I get back on my feet? Thanks. Yes, it is. Bye, now.”

Janet slammed the receiver down a little too hard. That man! When would he give it up? Dr. Fred Forester might be the most brilliant heart surgeon in the state, but he didn’t know the first thing about women. It seemed ironic to her now that she’d requested the recent transfer primarily in the hopes of learning under the tutelage of a man she had known, then, only by reputation.

She only wished it had stayed that way.

Now she had a headache, and she was so tired she could feel every muscle and tendon straining tight through her entire body. Yet the images on the television screen held her mesmerized. Time after time, she replayed the crucial seconds, the clock in the background of the frame clearly showing the time as 1:01 a.m.

And then the flash.

And the empty bed.

And, a long time later, the tape running out.

Damn, she thought. The tape was too short to record a whole night.

But something! Something! Now she knew it was real: the camcorder couldn’t suffer hallucinations. Unless she was hallucinating the image recorded by the camcorder...

No, she told herself, stop it. Stop running away from the truth.

Janet had been busy. She’d analyzed the blood samples she’d begun saving alter the second morning, and had determined that all the samples were human blood. Most mornings, she could represent every known blood type, plus one recurring one she’d never seen before.

Still, she told no one. When Paul called because she’d missed one of her regular check-ins, she told him she’d been sleeping. And when Bruce came by to help her with the camcorder, she kept her distance, perpetuating the viral deception. He showed her how to hook the recorder to her PC and further enhance the images, but she didn’t play the tape in his presence, even though his curiosity (about more than one thing) was obvious.

An hour later, Janet knew she’d have to bring someone else into this before long, whether she liked it or not. For while the enhanced images were blotchy and difficult to interpret, the dark, moving forms and the bright orange flashes made her feel threatened. There was something menacing about that half-second glimpse, as if somewhere things were happening at a frenzied pace, and vast energies were being released.

“Not yet,” she said aloud, startling herself. No, she couldn’t trust anyone else—not yet. She needed more information. The tape from last night showed a window.

Janet decided to look inside.

Reminder:don’t be afraid. Whatever’s happening has been happening for a week, and you’re still alive. Going crazy but still alive. The only thing that’s different this time is the camera. Question: then why am I still afraid?

The next morning, when Janet awoke, there was blood on her hands. But this time there was also blood spattered on the camcorder she’d clipped to the front of her nightgown.

Her head hurt even worse than usual as she went through her morning cleansing routine (as always, worrying about the chance of disease contagion from the blood). But she found herself humming as she toweled off. When she came out of the bathroom, the camcorder on the bed seemed to glow with importance. She teased herself, waiting long enough to make coffee and eat a granola bar. Then she could wait no longer.

PLAY.

The first hour of the tape showed nothing but darkness.

FAST FORWARD.

STOP.

PLAY.

The second hour was the same, except when she turned and the lens picked up the fuzzy blue outline of a pillow.

FAST FORWARD.

STOP.

PLAY.

And the third—blackness. She was beginning to fear the tape had been too short again, or the recorder had malfunctioned, or that this time, this one time, it hadn’t happened (though there was the blood...) when a bright white light exploded across the screen.

Long, dark shapes scissored forward, and the camera frame jerked to the side and down. At that angle, all that was visible was a gray, soot-covered surface bright with reflected, actinic light, and, enigmatically, two booted feet. The boots were glossy but worn, and the stance of the feet seemed unnaturally rigid.

They were big feet.

Then the camera bounced and a blur of gray shapes flashed by: blocky and angular but crumbling, like sand castles at high tide. Twice, a different shape, faster, flashier, crossed the field of view, but the light source, white and harsh, was confusing the camera’s electronics. The image came out flat and colorless, like looking at a negative.

Then the motion stopped.

A shadow crossed the camera, and then a tall, slender form stood out in the foreground. The man was in his forties, with streaks of gray in his sideburns and a face so rugged it made the sharp, darting eyes seem out of place. There were depths in those black, liquid eyes—depths of suffering and desperation and hopeless hope.

PAUSE.

“What the hell is this?” Janet crawled down onto the carpet, right up to the screen. The man was real enough. He was wearing some kind of military uniform. He was looking at something slightly above the camera, but then, coldly, Janet realized that if the camera hadn’t been jarred loose from her nightgown, the man was looking at her face.

Fear suddenly made her freeze inside. Something about that man was... familiar. For several seconds she was paralyzed, unable to even think, just remembering a feeling of being cold, both inside and out, colder than a dead person.

Finally she snapped out of it.

PLAY.

Now the man’s lips were moving. Janet suddenly realized the images were silent. Had she missed something on the camera? She turned up the volume, but there was only a soft hissing punctuated by patterns of faint clicking noises.

The man finished speaking and then the landscape was bobbing up and down in a way that told her she was walking. This continued for a time, with figures scurrying by and more of the big, lumbering shapes, and even, sometimes, a flash from the sky where something swift and metallic reflected that unearthly white light.

Presently, they reached their destination.

The madness began.

For three more hours, Janet watched the impossible images. Those were her own hands on the screen, no doubt of that. Their movements were too practiced, too familiar. Heart bypass. Kidney transplant. Amputation. One after another, the patients flowed beneath her busy hands. Shrapnel. Burns. Smoke inhalation. One after another, the procedures were performed. Cut. Remove. Stop the bleeding.

The bleeding...

Once, a patient wearing mirrored sunglasses passed beneath her. his abdomen torn open and half his intestines gone. All she saw was her reflection in the sunglasses, her white, bloodless face, her empty black eyes…

The tape shut off.

Janet jumped.

For a long time after that, she sat there, staring at the empty screen, hugging herself and rocking slowly, forward and backward, on the floor.

Reminder: start reading these reminders.

“OK,” she said, pacing up and down in the living room of her apartment. “This is all under control. It’s under control. This is some kind of misunderstanding. Yeah, that’s what it is. Some kind of dream. No! It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream.”

She wasn’t sure, later, how long she muttered on like this, pacing up and down in front of her audience, which consisted of a Styrofoam head wearing a blonde wig Janet had never worn and with painted, smiling red lips.

The dummy head never answered her, which she found reassuring.

In time, she began to wind down. Her frenetic outburst had been the crucible in which she’d burned away all the impossible explanations, and she’d been left only with the possibility that what was happening to her was real.

“What is happening?” she asked herself, sitting now on the living room floor in the gathering gloom of dusk. She didn’t turn on the lights, but just kept sitting there, staring, not at the world around her, but at something buried deep within.

Someone was using her!

Somewhere, somehow, she was being forced to perform operations on wounded men and women. The peripheral details were blurred, like what men and women and what place, but she found she could now focus quite clearly on what she was doing in the “vision.” And on the man. Those crafty, darting eyes, that uniform, the way the others deferred to him.

His eyes.

Forget.

Janet blinked. She’d almost dozed off there. She got up, her legs stiff, and was surprised when she looked at the clock and saw how late it was.

Almost bedtime again.

Almost time to go back to that place of death and light and cold. It would be a night like any other. Or perhaps not. This time she carried a weapon of her own. Knowledge.

Reminder: if you aren’t going to read these reminders, stopping making them. There. This is the last reminder.

Crack-boom! The thunderclap shocked her awake, and she opened her eyes onto a harsh white light so painfully bright it made her eyes water. She was on her feet in an instant.

It was so cold.

When the initial sound had dissipated, Janet became aware of a high background noise level. People were shouting and screaming, and explosions off in the distance or rarely—and loudly—nearby, punctuated the hubbub. There was another sound, too, a high-pitched whine she was sure she couldn’t really hear. She could feel it, though, making her fillings and eyeballs vibrate, making her insides clench up with anxiety.

At last, her eyes began to adjust to the brightness. Bold black shadows were scissoring toward her. Hands were reaching out. A man was coming up in front of her.

“You!”

It was the same uniform, the same pockmarked face, and especially the same black, liquid eyes. But his expression now was different from on the tape.

He was surprised.

“You... know me?” he asked carefully.

Janet shook off the soldiers, who had been loosely holding her arms.

“I seem to have this recurring nightmare where you force me to operate on wounded soldiers. Only it’s not a nightmare, is it?”

His expression showed appreciation, even respect. “Actually, it is a nightmare.” He shrugged, looking up at the bright white fireball that hung motionless in the heavens and the other lights, dimmer, that streaked across the sky or curved in their smooth orbital arcs. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever wake up.”

“Who are you? And what the hell are you doing to me?” He’d shown a weakness, and Janet wasn’t going to miss the opening. She knew men. This might be her only chance.

But he tightened up, his eyes growing cold. “I am General Richland of the Alphacorp Marines. Forgive me for the lapse in etiquette, but it seems we’ve been repeating this conversation with little variation every night for the past week.”

Janet shivered.

“Here, ma’am,” one of the solders offered. It was a transparent garment that felt like plastic but brought her a surprising feeling of warmth.

“Well, you might have had this conversation with me,” Janet said, determined to hold onto her original fury, “but I seem to be having this strange difficulty with my memory.”

Despite himself, General Richland smiled. “I’m sorry about that, Captain Jeffries, but you’re vital to our cause. I had no choice but to keep you… in the dark.”

“What was it? Hypnosis?”

He shook his head. “A new drug. It induces a fugue state and alters your metabolism to allow you to work longer without fatigue. I guess it was the blood that gave us away. We couldn’t control when the timescoop snapped you back. Now please, Captain, we need—”

“Captain? That’s twice you’ve called me that. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, it’s only honorary, I assure you. In your absence, the men and women you’ve treated have recommended the designation 216 times. A commanding officer has to go along with the wishes of his soldiers, you know.”

He was so likable. Not at all like the image she’d painted of him from the few frames of the film in which he appeared.

“Look,” Janet said, “I’m a little confused right now. And if this keeps up, it’s going to kill me. So would you please just explain what this is all about?”

Richland gestured for her to follow, and he spoke as they walked. “Our war with Sigmacorp has gone on for so long we no longer have citizens or professionals or even leaders, above troop level. But the fight goes on. The enemy has blinded us with an artificial sun that brings no warmth and has devoured half our continents with Von Neumanns, but we keep fighting, adapting, trying anything we can think of to stay alive.”

“No professionals? Meaning...”

“Right. No doctors. Not in my troop, at least. The enemy perfected a viral weapon that singled out the brightest of us and attacked their neural tissue. A few of us were away on surveillance runs when it happened. We came back to find our best scientists and all our doctors reduced to drooling morons. We’ve managed to engineer a new resistant blood type, but meanwhile—”

Janet frowned. “—You needed—”

“You. We’ve managed to scoop you up, so to speak, from the past. It was a freak of luck, really, that the time-caster was able to locate you—and he had to search for a long time at that. But now we have you. And we’re not letting you go.”

This last made her stop walking. “But every morning you return me to my bed.”

Richland nodded. “The timescoop is like a rubber band. After a few hours, it snaps you back into your time and place of origin. Only if the target space were occupied during your absence would you be able to remain here indefinitely. And so far we haven’t worked out how to—”

“Hey,” she blurted, feeling a pressure behind her eyes, “look here a minute. Don’t I have any—” And then she stopped, because a hovercraft was drawing up to them, and the soldiers heaped upon it looked like they had been mauled by tigers.

“My God,” she gasped.

Richland gestured the hovercraft driver to settle where he was. He gestured again, and Janet followed without thinking. Then the hovercraft resumed flight.

“What happened?” she heard Richland ask, his mouth close to the pilot’s ear against the rush of the wind.

“Nanotechnics, General,” the pilot screamed back, his voice awful. “Self-replicating flesh-eaters. We found the control frequency and deactivated them, but not before....”

Janet looked at the nearest one. In a dozen places, it looked like tiny insects had eaten away the man’s skin and muscle down to the bone. The wounds were dirty and infected.

She felt like fainting.

“Here we are,” Richland said. They’d landed; he had his hands on her shoulders, and she realized she had fainted.

And she realized something else. They had arrived at the field hospital, and she had work to do.

Reminder: I’m all for saving the world, but this is killing me. I have to get some rest. There has to be a way out.

The phone rang, waking her up before two that afternoon. It was Paul.

“Janet, I thought you should know, but I hate to bother you, but you said that if—”

“Paul,” she said gently, “what is it?”

“It’s Mrs. Caldwell. She went into cardiac arrest last night. Twice. The second time they didn’t think they were going to bring her back in time.”

Janet nodded. “I’ll be right there. Have her prepped for surgery.”

“But Janet, you’re sick and all and Dr. Forester said he’d—”

“No. Mrs. Caldwell is my patient. Don’t worry, Paul. It’ll be all right. Now do what I said.”

She hung up and got dressed.

Then she went to the hospital.

Mrs. Caldwell had failed to respond to the third drug Janet had tried for preventing her heart from stopping. They’d used up all their chances and it was time to implant a defibrillator to shock the heart back to life whenever it began its downward spiral. Routine operation, success rate 98 percent.

Today it was touch and go. The nurses and technicians seemed to be watching her, noting the circles under her eyes and how red the eyes themselves were. At one point she became convinced, irrationally, that they knew, that they were all somehow not real people but invading aliens taking human form to watch and study her. They could read her mind but she couldn’t read theirs.

Crazy. Paranoid. Another sign of growing fatigue.

Got to rest.

Then, to top it all off, Dr. Fred Forester cornered her in the corridor to the parking garage after she’d scrubbed up and was trying to sneak back out to her car.

“Hey, Janet, it’s great to see you. Feeling better, I hope?”

She eyed him silently. Her head hurt. She thought suddenly there was blood on her hands, yes that there was blood on her hands, though she’d just gotten scrubbed up.

Rest....

“Look,” Dr. Forester said, lowering his voice, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, because I like you as a person and I think you’re a damn good doctor. But Janet, people are starting to wonder. About you. Your behavior these past couple of weeks has been—”

“My behavior, Dr. Forester, is my own concern. As is yours.”

“Think you’re hot stuff, don’t you?”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing. I just thought you’d realize that with the senior surgeon supporting you, your career would be a lot safer. There are people here who—”

“Fred, this is sexual harassment. Now, look. I am tired. I am going home. Thank you for your concern. Good night.”

She turned sharply and started walking. A hand dropped onto her shoulder and she spun, slapping him hard before she could check the reflex.

He barely flinched. “I’m not playing around here, Janet. There’s a meeting tomorrow among the top hospital staff. A meeting about you. I’m going to be at that meeting. In fact, I am going to be the principal witness. And I am going to make sure you never work in this hospital again.”

“You—”

Janet bit her tongue. She wanted to kill him. Slowly, with her bare hands. She was so tired! She wanted him out of the way, vanished without a…

It clicked.

She cleared her throat, sighed. “Fred, I had no idea this meant so much to you.”

His eyes widened slightly, then, slowly, he smiled. “Oh, but it does.”

Eyes downcast. “Look, I’m sorry for being such a bitch these past few days, but I’m very tired. You understand?”

He nodded. “Tired people should be put to bed by competent health care professionals.”

She smiled.

It was easy from there.

Reminder: not ever again.

Fred Forester snored. Which figured. Janet waited until the fat bed hog was soundly asleep before she slipped out of the covers and tiptoed across the room. His clumsy attempt at lovemaking had been a joke, and far from satisfying her, he’d actually annoyed her. But it had been worth it.

Now, she put on a kettle of water and made a cup of hot tea. She looked at the clock. A few minutes later she looked in through the bedroom door. When the bright white flash came, she smiled.

Then she piled everything she could find on top of the empty bed.

“Fred Forester,” she said, “meet General Richland. He’s a brilliant surgeon, General. In fact, he’s the best there is. And he’s all yours.”

Reminder: Rearrange furniture. Put chest of drawers where bed used to be. Stack boxes on top. Don’t ever take them down.

Paul beamed when she walked into her office the next morning.

“You’re looking very nice today,” he said, blushing. What a cute kid.

“Thank you, Paul. I feel much better today. Any messages?” She crossed the room to her desk and picked up her patient charts. She was so nervous that she bumped her knee against the desk, bringing a sharp pain and making everything on the desk rattle.

“Are you kidding?” said Paul. “You have forty-two thousand messages, or thereabouts. Don’t worry. They’ve all been responded to, and your charts have been updated as of 4:00 A.M.”

Janet smiled, trying to let the tension flow out of her. “You’re so efficient, Paul, I almost think you could run this place without me.”

He grinned. Perhaps he wasn’t really so awfully young at that.

“By the way,” Paul said, frowning slightly, “you haven’t heard from Dr. Forester in the past twelve hours, have you?”

Her heart skipped a beat, but she shook her head casually. “Thank God, no,” she said, making sure to avoid eye contact. “Why do you ask?”

But Paul was already flipping through charts and records on the computer. “I’m sure it’s nothing. His receptionist called me. Seems he missed all his morning appointments and doesn’t answer his phone. No one’s seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

Janet smiled to herself. “Maybe he’s off somewhere moonlighting,” she said.

Paul looked at her oddly for an instant, but then he moved on to something else, and Janet sighed. She started to relax when she suddenly felt something wet and sticky on her hands. She looked down.

One of the charts she was holding had a dark, still wet coffee stain in one corner. Glancing at the desk, she saw that she had sloshed coffee all over her papers when she’d accidentally kicked the desk. She laughed, rubbing her fingers together. Paul looked up.

“Something wrong?”

For a long moment, Janet stared into space, her mind far away, but then, finally, she blinked and smiled.

“Here,” said Paul, “let me clean that up.”

She waved him to stay where he was. “I’ve got to do something around here. Besides, I’m perfectly capable of cleaning up my own messes.”

He grinned at her as she blotted up the coffee. “And to answer your question,” she said, “no, there’s nothing wrong at all.”

Content

No Blood on My Hands
by Pete D. Manison