Jillian

“I know.”
“But I won’t let her get to me.”
“That’s good. You should really try to let this all go, it’s not good for you. You talk about her every day. I’m so happy you’re going to brush it off, that’s really mature.”
Megan omitted his statement from her mind. “I’ll turn the tables,” she said. “I’ll enjoy it. Every stupid idea she has is mine now. I’ll savor it, that’s what I’ll do.”
Randy frowned and balled up the snot gauze before tossing it onto the nightstand.
•   •   •
The bus pulled up to the eight-story medical building and Megan had her usual fantasy about remaining onboard until the end of the line, but she heaved herself toward the doors of the bus anyway. Slumping along, sort of throwing her feet one after the other, she crossed the street, entered the building, rode the elevator, walked down the hallway, and then stood facing her office door. She stared at it. Then she went inside and there was Jillian.
“Hey, Miss Megan!”
“Hey,” said Megan.
“How was your night, do anything fun? Anything new?”
“Nothing’s really changed since yesterday, no,” said Megan. Megan put her knee on her chair and opened Citrix, the intranet portal that connected her office with the hospital. Citrix was complex and opaque, and to understand it fully a person would probably need to attend a three-day regional seminar. Megan entered her secret username, “Megan,” and her secret password, “password.”
“Well, if you don’t have any news, let me tell you about my crazy night.” Jillian separated out the words “crazy” and “night.” Megan tried to ease her weight slowly down on her injured haunch.
“I am going to get a dog and start my own business,” said Jillian.
“Oh yeah?” said Megan.
“Oh yeah. Do you want to see the dog?”
Megan did not want to see the dog, but she agreed anyway. She walked the two paces to Jillian’s desk and stood there with her arms crossed. Let’s see this fucking dog, you fucking moron.
“She’s a special needs puppy,” breathed Jillian. “And she’s dog of the day. It’s a two-hundred-dollar adoption fee. I don’t really have that much, but I want her so, so bad. Isn’t she cute?”
They both took a second to admire the dog. Megan thought it was a completely idiotic idea. She was, in some ways, ethically opposed to pet ownership.
“Yeah, she’s cute. But the adoption fees are to make sure the new owners can afford dog food and vet bills.” Megan cleared her throat and walked back to her desk. Her foot slipped out of her shoe. “And, if she really is a special needs dog, you know the vet bills are gonna be high. Just saying, might not be the best dog for you. Or, maybe it’s not the best time to get a dog. You have to plan for that stuff.”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure my little boy really wants a dog, and I think the most important thing for a special needs dog to have is love.”
Oh my god, this dog is going to die within a week, thought Megan.
“Oh, and I have to tell you about my idea to work from home.”
Just as a thought experiment, Megan scanned the room for potential weapons. Jillian’s voice came in and out of focus.
“. . . software I can . . . medical coding from . . . that cool?? . . . I can take . . . little companion!”
Megan’s cut was starting to scab, but the scab was still thin and new—that kind of yellow, crystallized pus, like dried snot or eye-crap. It cracked a little when Megan put weight on it.
“It’s going to be so great. I can’t wait for summer. I’m gonna work from home, and I’m gonna have a dog on a leash and my baby’s hand in mine,” said Jillian. Megan glanced over her shoulder and confirmed that, yes, Jillian did have a faraway look on her face.
“Yep. This summer’s gonna be the best,” said Megan.
Megan started filing the images from the colonoscopies performed the day before. The large volume of documents suggested a kind of drive-through approach to the procedures that Megan found tactless. The images in the folder were the same as they always were. Each patient was represented by a grid of two-by-two-inch photographs of twisting, ribbed tunnels, which were sometimes pink and slick, but sometimes filled with crust, sludge, blood, or little hangy-balls of bowel skin. The one thing she never saw in any of these photos was waste, but sometimes she came across a report with no images and the ghastly description “patient failed to empty completely, reschedule procedure.”
“Hi,” said Jillian. “I’m calling about the software package I saw on your website. . . . Yuh-huh. Yeah, I’m really, um, really interested in it. Yes, ma’am, I am starting my own coding business. Yes, ma’am, medical coding. Yes, I will. Okay. You want me to give you my number?”
Jillian hung up the phone and sighed, thrilled. “Oh, dude, Megan, this is going to be so awesome!”
“Huh?” said Megan.
Jillian gasped. “Oh, I almost forgot! We have twelve patients this afternoon, so get ready! I made up some new registration forms.” Megan could feel that Jillian was approaching her.
Jillian opened a manila folder under Megan’s face and said, “It’s basically the same as the last one, except for here.” She double-tapped. Jillian’s fingers seemed to get a great sensory thrill from paper, judging by the way they touched it.
“And this is the new confidentiality agreement.”
“I got it, Jillian,” said Megan. “Thank you. Thank you for doing this.”
“Oh, and since you were late again today, I took your missed calls. You had lots. Let me get those notes for you.”
“Thank you very much,” said Megan.
The doctors arrived ten minutes later, and Megan gave them both a curt, nonverbal greeting. Jillian showed them both the dog.
Later, Jillian received a phone call. Megan observed an immediate shift in tone. Her ears perked.
“No, I’m sorry but that’s not fair,” said Jillian. “It’s not fair, and it’s incorrect.” Pause. “No.”
Megan shifted the weight off her left butt cheek and jiggled her mouse, miming work, but alert