| |
When consciousness finally returns to Peter, a small light pierces the vision of one eye. A gloved thumb holds Peter’s eyelid open for a second. The hand lets it go and lifts the other eyelid.
“Hello, there,” a soothing male voice says. “What’s your name?”
“Henry Roberts.”
“Are you sure?” The man looks over his shoulder. “Hey, Mike. What’s his wallet say again?”
Peter realizes his mistake. “No, wait. Henry’s my friend. I’m Peter Wilson.”
“That matches,” the EMT holding the wallet says.
“Good. How are you feeling today, Mister Wilson?” The man looks away. Peter can feel pressure bearing down on his bicep. The EMT stares at a monitor, calculating.
“I don’t know,” Peter admits. His breathing is steady, but his entire torso is in a clenching pain that makes him feel like he’s being crushed under the weight of the officers at the prison again.
“We got a call you needed help. Dispatch said you might be having a heart attack.” The restraint abates, and the EMT removes a blood pressure cuff from Peter’s arm.
“Am I dying?” He wiggles his fingers and toes, mentally cataloging the sensation of each live digit.
“Not today.” He grasps Peter near the wrist and looks to his watch, counting. A moment later he answers, “Your heart’s fine. Good blood pressure, strong pulse. You probably had a panic attack.”
Peter rubs his eyes with his newly released hand. “It felt like a heart attack.”
“That’s what most people think, the first time a bad one happens. We can take you to the emergency room if you want a second opinion, but they’ll probably just charge you fourteen-hundred bucks to tell you the same thing.” He helps Peter move to a sitting position. The medic’s biceps flex under his button-down, and Peter’s even more aware of how inadequate he feels.
“I trust your judgement,” Peter says. He remains sitting on the floor as he watches the medical team pack up their gear.
“Get some rest. Read a book and relax awhile. You’ll be fine,” Mike says. “If you have another attack, call your doctor. They’ve got great meds that can help.”
“Add a bit of counseling, and you’ll come out the other side a new man,” the guy with the concrete biceps says. He squats beside Peter and looks him over. “Do you want us to call someone to come hang out with you for a while?”
Peter shakes his head. A few minutes later, the pair let themselves out. They must have turned on the overhead light. It glares down on him like a spotlight in the otherwise dim apartment. Pale yellow fingers leach through the cracks between the blinds in the window from a nearby lamppost and paint stripes on the carpet.
Head pounding, Peter’s aching body screams it’s thirsty. At least that means he’s still alive.
When he shifts to his hands and knees, his clothes cling to him. He feels like he’s run a marathon. Although his clothes were clean when he went down, now they hold the clammy stench of an intense sweat. It takes a couple tries to get his feet under him, but he finally makes his way to the bathroom. He needs a shower and some medicine to relax his tense muscles and pounding head.
He starts the water and pops a couple pills while he waits for the temperature to even out. He undresses and stands in front of the mirror. He’s felt vibrant and alive the last couple weeks, but now his reflection is blotchy. He looks older than he did this morning. After being arm-to-arm with the fit medic, he looks thin. Noodly, even.
The water stings when he steps in the tub. He adjusts the heat until it’s bearable and stands under the showerhead until the ringing in his ears is drowned out by the hiss of running water. The steam soothes his burning lungs. Peter stares absently at the rack hanging from the showerhead. There isn’t much else in the tub’s surround to pay attention to. Soap, body wash, shampoo, and a disposable razor fill the small chrome basket. Peter’s tired brain reads the back of the body wash bottle for no reason other than that it sits at eye level.
The instructions are the same on practically every body care product he’s ever seen. He wonders why they bother printing them at all. Get wet. Apply product. Scrub and rinse. Repeat if you feel you need to. Move on with your day if you don’t.
His lazy gaze moves across the ingredients. Methylisothiazolinone. Methylchloroisothiazolinone. Cocamidopropyl Betaine. Oxidized Polyethylene. Sodium Laureth Sulfate. Sodium Benzoate. Sodium Hydroxide. Ferric Ammonium Ferrocyanide.
Peter’s brain screeches to a halt. He grabs the bottle and traces his finger over the printed label. Adrenaline pulses under his skin as his eyes focus. Ferric Ammonium Ferrocyanide.
He shuts the water off and leaves the bathroom with the plastic bottle in hand. He drips water all over the apartment as he retrieves his laptop. He pulls it from its case and props it open on the coffee table as he sits on the couch. He types a question into the browser’s search bar.
Is Ferric Ammonium Ferrocyanide the same as cyanide?
Clicking the second link on the page reveals a lengthy article. He starts reading.
Ferric Ammonium Ferrocyanide is a common colorant in bath and beauty products. It produces blue or yellow coloring, depending on the addition of other reactive compounds. It’s closely related to Ferric Ferrocyanide, commonly referred to as “Prussian Blue” in cosmetics, though it’s not the same chemical. It belongs to a class of inorganic cyanides. If inhaled or ingested, immediately transport the affected person to a hospital for medical treatment.
There’s cyanide in the soap. Peter chuckles. No wonder they don’t want you drinking the stuff.
As he leans back on the couch, his snicker blossoms into a full-on laugh. He can’t believe it. Cyanide in his apartment. The laughter overwhelms him, the contracting muscles forcing him to double over. Tears pool in his eyes and trickle down his cheeks. They probably drop off his chin onto his naked knees, but he’s still so wet from the shower, he doesn’t feel them fall. A whoop of excitement escapes his chest and all the tension around his ribcage from the panic attack slips away.
Glen may try to screw up Peter’s world, but he knows just what to do to make sure he doesn’t succeed.